

1 





















































1 

















I 



























































































It was with a hand that expressed impatience that Mrs. 
Ruthven roused her daughter. 



Time and the Woman 

A NO VEL 

BY 

RICHARD PRYCE 

v\ 

AUTHOR OF 

“THE SUCCESSOR,” “CHRISTOPHER’ 
ETC., ETC. 


Illustrations by 
LOUIS WISA 


Company 
: : New York 


c iqrs* 

Copcf a. 


v > y-> 



R . F . F e n n o & 

18 East Seventeenth Street 


.^54 

Tl 

A „ 

C,Op^ <2. 


Copyright, 1913, by 
R. F. FENNO & COMPANY 


Transferred from 

Copyn?V • 





TIME AND THE WOMAN 


TIME AND THE WOMAN 



Time and the Woman 


CHAPTER I. 

Mrs. Sandon, in an indolent and unaggressive 
sort of way, disapproved of her Indian cousin. 
But she was fond of her at the same time. More- 
over, she was a mischievous old woman, who liked 
amusement herself, and as the Ruthvens were stay- 
ing with her in Earl Street, she gave a series of 
small dinner-parties, at one of which she gave Mrs. 
Ruthven her best young man. 

Very possibly it is unfortunate for a girl to have 
a mother who scarcely looks any older than herself. 
Mrs. Sandon, sitting in the stalls at the Panton, 
whither the party had adjourned because the play 
had the grace to begin at nine instead of eight, and 
the hostess had too much respect for her cook to 
hurry the courses, said something of the sort to 
her neighbor, Lady Murgatroyd. 

The curtain had risen, and a rude person in 
the pit — the row in which the old lady was sitting 
9 


10 


Time and the Woman 


was somewhat far back — growled, and said “ Ssh ! 
Ssh ! ” very audibly. One or two other people 
turned their heads ; Mrs. Sandon felt that she ought 
not to have been talking, that the rebuke was 
deserved, and she lapsed into silence ; and wondered 
whether at her age a risky, frisky farce really 
amused her. Some one, a frolicsome wife, was 
hiding under a table ; an equally frolicsome husband 
had drenched a waiter with a garden hose. The 
house shook with merriment. Mrs. Ruthven 
laughed with the rest and displayed very pretty 
teeth. Gerald Ventnor noted their whiteness and 
their evenness, as she leant across him to speak to 
her daughter, who sat with a grave face. 

“ Aren’t you amused ? ” 

The girl looked round. Mrs. Ruthven repeated 
her question. 

“Yes, at least I think so. Perhaps not very 
much ; I don’t know. If one thinks of it it is dread- 
ful. It ought to be rather serious, and one is sup- 
posed to laugh ” 

“ Oh, serious ! ” said Mrs. Ruthven. 

Mrs. Sandon touched Lady Murgatroyd’s arm 
gently with her fan. 

“Look at that,” she said. 

“And then I don’t think I understand it all,” 
added Miss Ruthven. 

“ What a loss it is to have so little imagination,” 
said her mother. 


Time and the Woman 


11 


“ But this sort of thing requires a certain slang 
education,” said Gerald lightly. 

“ Coupled with the sine qua non of having what 
you call well-dined,” put in another of Mrs. 
Sandon’s party. 

“You speak as a man,” said Mrs. Ruthven, 
smiling. 

“And I have what you call well-dined,” said 
Miss Ruthven. 

At this the others laughed, and she wondered 
why as she hastened to add 

“ So it must be as mother says, that I have no 
imagination.” 

“ Araby is rather impossible,” Mrs. Ruthven said 
to Ventnor, as one who sums up a matter and dis- 
misses it. 

Miss Ruthven’s name for family reasons was 
Arabella. It was to her mother that she owed its 
conversion to the softer-sounding Araby. 

When the curtain fell Mrs. Sandon resumed 

“ This won’t get better. I am sorry for that 
girl, and I wonder myself how it will all end. 
Johnnie — ridiculous not to say vulgar name for a 
married woman, it sounds to me almost improper 
— Johnnie, I say, has had a high old time — isn’t 
that what they call it? — in India. Has kippled at 
dreadfully naughty and attractive places, about the 
Simla to her heart’s content, and at all those other 


12 


Time and the Woman 


goings-on at which we all know so much now. Well, 
she means to have as good a time as she can still. 
As it is, since she has been with me half a dozen 
of her young men have already been to look her 
up. Yes, isn’t she pretty? Of course I have known 
her all her life, and I declare she scarcely looks a 
day older than when she married Corbet. That 
must be nineteen years ago, and Johnnie Ruthven 
is, I suppose, in her thirty-eighth year.” 

Lady Murgatroyd said that did not seem pos- 
sible. She launched into a disquisition as to what 
makes or does not make a woman age. Mrs. 
Ruthven she thought could not have had many 
disappointments. 

“ Well, no,” said Mrs. Sandon, t€ I do not know 
that she has. She takes things very quietly, and 
I do not think she worries herself over trifles.” 

Mrs. Sandon looked at the lines on Lady 
Murgatroyd’s face as she spoke, and did not say, 
though she thought it, that one or two of these 
might have been spared her friend if she had gone 
upon a like principle. 

There was a pause, which was filled by the 
hum of talk in the theatre. Lady Murgatroyd con- 
templated Miss Ruthven closely. 

“ She is nearly as beautiful as her mother,” she 
said presently. 

Mrs. Sandon looked from one to the other. 


Time and the Woman 


13 


Joan Ruthven, or Johnnie, as she was known 
to her intimate friends and Mrs. Sandon’s more 
or less pretended disapproval, was in truth won- 
derfully well-preserved. Indeed so young did she 
appear, that to the casual observer her looks did 
not suggest that they owed anything to preserva- 
tion at all. She had a slim tall figure, supple as 
a girl’s, with the lithe straightness of the good 
horsewoman. Her face had the most frank and 
open expression. It was innocent as a child’s, and 
there was much that was childish in the beautiful 
mouth ; but Mrs. Sandon, speaking of her eyes, said 
that you could see them across the street. 

Araby resembled her mother only in outline. She 
too was tall and straight, but her slightness was 
more pronounced and her coloring was altogether 
different. While Mrs. Ruthven had brown hair, 
and eyes of the darkest blue, Araby was unusually 
fair. Her hair was of a shade of red which Mrs. 
Ruthven chose not to admire. It was soft, and 
dry, and feathery, and it blazed with golden lights. 
She reminded you at times of a Romney, at times 
of a Greuze. She had, it is true, the same childish 
mouth as her mother, but here all likeness ceased. 
Her nose called for no comment, good or bad, and 
her eyes, up to the time of which I write, she had 
only used to see with. Even thus it is probable that 
many things escaped her which to others were 


14 


Time and the Woman 


sufficiently obvious. She had a rose-leaf complexion 
of which she took great care, and a color that was 
ready in response to excitement, pleasure, interest, 
and the like. Her beauty was more prospective than 
actual. 

Seated between the girl and the mother, Gerald 
Ventnor found himself as a matter of course 
talking to the mother. Miss Ruthven’s unobtrusive- 
ness was somehow such as to cause her to be dis- 
missed by a certain type of man as ingenue. When 
occasionally Gerald looked at her it was to wonder 
whether she knew her own beauty. He did not 
think that she did, and he thought once that it 
might be amusing to tell her. Unconsciously he 
thought of her as a little girl to whom it was 
good-natured to address an occasional remark, but 
who would not of course expect it. This, though 
he did not know it, was somehow contrived by Mrs. 
Ruthven. She had a way of influencing people 
without their knowledge. 

“ Now look at that,” began Mrs. Sandon pres- 
ently, but the rude and socialistic person in the pit 
said Ssh again, and she, turning round indignantly 
this time, waited nevertheless as before till the end of 
the act. 

The house was full; not a gap was to be seen 
in the rows of stalls. The theatre had the brilliant 
and prosperous appearance that argues that the 


Time and the Woman 


15 


seats have been paid for, and that “ paper ” is un- 
known. The red silk handkerchief of distant 
Bayswater and the plush cloaks of the suburbs 
were absent. Smart, well-dined London was in 
evidence. 

“ What I wanted to say,” said Mrs. Sandon, 
when the curtain fell upon the second act, “ what 
I wanted to say was, just note how Mrs. Ruthven 
takes possession of a man. Gerald Ventnor has 
spoken about six words to Araby since the be- 
ginning of the evening. By the bye, how furious 
his mother will be if she takes him up — Mrs. 
Ruthven I mean.” Mrs. Sandon chuckled at the 
mere thought Lady Ventnor’s alarms on Gerald’s 
account were a source of constant amusement to 
her. 

“ And the husband ? ” asked Lady Murgatroyd. 

“ Whose ? Oh, Mrs. Ruthven’s husband ? ” 

Lady Murgatroyd nodded. 

“ Well, that’s what I don’t understand — what 
I suppose no one ever will understand,” said Mrs. 
Sandon. “He doesn’t interfere; he lets her do 
exactly as she likes. No, we shall never get at 
the bottom of that story! Corbet Ruthven was 
madly in love with her when he married. My dear 
Lady Murgatroyd, you never saw a man more rest- 
lessly miserable after he met her at a Woolwich 
ball, nor more wildly elated when, after playing 


16 


Time and the Woman 


him like a fish, she accepted him. He wasn’t so 
well off then, you know, as he is now. His uncle 
was alive in those days. He made a confidante of 
me — Corbet and I were always good friends. I 
have seen him walk up and down my drawing- 
room in Earl Street, till I thought he would wear 
holes in the carpet. He talked to me of her for 
hours. Well, they were married, and he wrote me 
rapturous letters about his happiness. That lasted 
for about a year; then he began to say less about 
her; then she dropped out of his letters; then he 
stopped writing altogether, and I heard from every 
one that Corbet Ruthven was dropping his friends. 
His uncle died and left him the tea business, and 
Corbet left the service, which I always thought a 
pity. I found him greatly changed when I saw him 
last; that was about six years ago. Tie came home 
for a couple of months to see Araby, who was living 
with two Miss Woottons, aunts of his. He seemed 
to be absolutely indifferent to all that Johnnie did. 
They didn’t quarrel, you must understand, — she is 
a great deal too clever for that. — he just went his 
way and let her go hers.” 

“ Did she come home with him ? ” 

“ No, she was amusing herself in the hills with 
her pet young men. He laughed about it, and 
called them Johnnie’s Johnnies. Poor Corbet! ” 

“ Why did she marry him ?. ” 


Time and the Woman 


17 


“ He was a good match for her. The Linton 
girls hadn’t a penny of their own; their faces were 
their fortunes. Rose, the other one, married well 
too, but she died. Corbet had a little money, and 
the prospects which were afterwards realized; so 
Joan, after keeping him dangling on for two or three 
months, married him. Whether she ever really 
cared for him or not I cannot say. I dare say the 
attention she got turned her head a little. One 
thing, by the way, which Corbet said to me, struck 
me as significant. He was regretting the separation 
from Araby, and there were reasons why he could 
not leave the tea business. I said that in time Araby 
Would be able to go out to him, and he said never. 
Araby should not set her foot in India with his 
consent. I inferred not a little from this.” 

There was a pause. Mrs. Sandon smiled to 
herself. 

“ You must understand me,” she said then. “ I 
am really very fond of Johnnie, with all her faults, 
I always was, and she has been uniformly delight- 
ful to me. I love her pretty face. Just watch her 
mouth as she speaks. Have you ever seen anything 
more beguiling? Do you wonder that men fall in 
love with her? I have only to look at her to for- 
give her everything.” 

Lady Murgatroyd, who was always thinking of 
her own plain face, and she had perhaps an ex- 
aggerated idea of its plainness, sighed. 


18 


Time and the Woman 


“ What did you say?” asked Mrs. Sandon. 

“ Nothing,” said Lady Murgatroyd, “ nothing. 
Look, I think Mr. Ventnor wants to catch your eye.” 
Gerald was leaning over the back of his stall. 
“ I want you all to come back to supper with 
me at the club. Mrs. Ruthven is good enough to 
say that she will come if you will, so you must 
not refuse me, Mrs. Sandon.” 

“ My dear Gerald, I couldn’t think of it. I 
should be dead to-morrow. It is very nice of you 
all the same. But my not going need not prevent 
any one else. Lady Murgatroyd, you will go? ” 
Lady Murgatroyd shook her head. She was 
a little bit tired, she said. It was most good of 
Mr. Ventnor, but Lady Murgatroyd thought she 
would rather go home from the theatre. 

“ I will drop you in Earl Street then,” said Mrs. 
Safidon, “and Mrs. Ruthven must chaperon the 
girls. Johnnie, I give Miss Norfolk into your care. 
Is Mr. Hartford going with you? Yes? And Mr. 
Vine and Mr. Le Marchant? ” 

The two men she named last regretted that they 
were going on to a ball. 

Ventnor went out to telegraph his orders to 
his club, and Mrs. Sandon said to her neighbor, 
“ I quite wish I was going with them, but it 
would not have been fair to spoil their fun, would 
it?” 


Time and the Woman 


19 


Lady Murgatroyd set her teeth. She had an 
unhappy knack of imagining slights that were not 
intended. She was morbidly sensitive, and time 
had no power to blunt the quality. 

When the play came to an end Mrs. Ruthven, 
fastening her cloak, a wonderful thing of silk and 
feathers, leant over towards Mrs. Sandon. 

“ You will take Araby home,” she said, in her 
sweet voice. 

“ But surely Araby is going with you,” Mrs. 
Sandon said, raising her eyebrows and speaking 
in a tone of mild expostulation. 

Mrs. Ruthven shook her head. 

" I am quite ready to go home,” said Araby, 
good-temperedly. 

“ The best girl in the world,” whispered Mrs. 
Sandon to Lady Murgatroyd. u But I should rather 
like to shake Johnnie.” 

It was not till the Earl Street party had driven 
off that Gerald saw what had happened. It chanced 
that it was Hartford, and not he, who put them into 
their carriage. 

“ I am sorry,” he said, more than once in the 
hansom ; “ I hope Miss Ruthven knew she was asked. 
I thought it was quite understood that you were all 
coming.” 

“ We should have made an odd number,” said 
Mrs. Ruthven. 

“ I am sorry though,” said Ventnor. 


20 


Time and the Woman 


CHAPTER II. 

Mrs. Ruthven and Ventnor had barely alighted 
when they were joined by Miss Norfolk and Hart- 
ford, whose hansom had been following closely in 
the track of their own. Gerald led the way to the 
room, where a table awaited the arrival of his 
supper-party. 

Several others were occupied, and the candles with 
their red shades dotted the room like flowers with 
hearts of flame. 

Ventnor exchanged nods with a man or two 
of his acquaintance. People looked up, and glanc- 
ing casually first at the group focused thier gaze 
by degrees on to Mrs. Ruthven. Supper passed 
merrily enough. Some one said something about a 
survival of the fittest. Gerald made an admirable 
host. Mrs. Ruthven talked lightly and laughed 
often. She had an attractive laugh that made you 
wish to laugh too. Gerald sought a word to ex- 
press her, and found it he thought in provocante. 

Miss Norfolk, an old friend of Gerald’s, was 
of the type of girl that Mrs. Ruthven approved. 
She may be here described briefly as the child 


Time and the Woman 


21 


of her decade. She was very much on the spot, 
and she thoroughly understood that she was to 
talk to Hartford. She was nothing loth. 

“A girl to make one’s useful friend,” Mrs. 
Ruthven said to herself; “I will see something 
of her later on.” 

Afterwards she found an opportunity of admir- 
ing Miss Norfolk’s dress. Mrs. Ruthven was always 
as ready to annex a girl as to annex a man, though 
for different reasons. 

Ventnor, whose regrets as to the absence of Miss 
Ruthven were half sincere and half conventional, 
had long since allowed them to sink to rest in the 
charm of the society of her mother. He con- 
gratulated himself upon the happy thought of supper 
in the ladies’ room at his club. Mrs. Ruthven had 
accepted with an absence of demur that was flatter- 
ing. 

It was easy to like Gerald Ventnor, and he was 
a man of many friends. Nature had dealt with him 
generously. He was not perhaps remarkable for any 
very special attributes, and his type is one common 
enough amongst the class to which he belonged. 
Eton and Oxford had produced him, or at least had 
aided in his development, and a sound constitution 
and a more or less healthy mode of life had con- 
tributed to make him what he was. His features 
were sufficiently good. His skin was clear and 


22 


Time and the Woman 


ruddy. His blue eyes looked straight at you, and 
had a certain baffling serenity. Something of the 
same nature was again suggested by his mouth. 
Miss Norfolk, who knew him well, said of him that 
you were never sure what he might or might not be 
thinking of you. 

Mrs. Ruthven at this moment was feeling the 
perverse attraction of his placidity. She was 
accustomed to admiration and took it as her due. 
It was of course tiresome upon occasion, and she 
could have cited half a dozen instances of the 
truth of this amongst those of the young men 
whom from time to time she had annexed. There 
was Robin Wakefield, whom she had undertaken 
to cure of his attachment to a girl at home who 
had jilted him. He transferred his affection to 
her with alarming rapidity, and bored her beyond 
measure. There was Atty Carnac of the — th 
Lancers, who threatened to shoot himself, and 
ended by marrying the ugliest woman in Calcutta. 
There was young Kynaston, known in his regi- 
ment as Kitty, whose devotion took the form of a 
melancholy that began by being amusing, and be- 
came in time a weariness of the flesh. And there 
were several others. But Mrs. Ruthven was wish- 
ing that Gerald would appear a little less calm. 

“ I am wondering/’ she said suddenly and 
irrelevantly to anything that had been said before, 


Time and the Woman 


23 


“ I am wondering whether any one really knows you, 
Mr. Ventnor.” 

Gerald smiled inscrutably, and said quietly that 
perhaps there was nothing to know. 

On his part, in his somewhat indolent way, 
Ventnor thought that Mrs. Ruthven was a very 
charming woman, and pretty enough to turn strong 
heads; but he did not wear his heart upon his 
sleeve. Moreover, there is a point at which in- 
terest passes the border-line of pleasant sensation, 
and further than this he had no intention, just 
then at any rate, of allowing his feelings to go. 

This he decided quietly, to the accompaniment of 
the dainty dishes, the ’8o champagne, and the sound 
of Mrs. Ruthven’s voice. Her voice pleased his ear. 

In the light of the candles the diamond neck- 
lace which she wore sparkled upon her white neck. 
Miss Norfolk, as one of a large family, was thinking 
that it was easy for Mrs. Ruthven to look well. 
She admitted, however, frankly that fine feathers 
were not by any means necessary to make Mrs. 
Ruthven a fine bird. She knew, moreover, upon 
which side of her bread butter was to be expected, 
and she also was thinking that her new acquaintance 
might prove a useful friend. 

Miss Norfolk, you see, was eminently a girl of 
London, and she had no illusions. The gifts of 
to-day were always acceptable to her, and she 


24 


Time and the Woman 


was prepared for more to-morrow. She was a good 
girl enough in its widest sense. She was not 
malicious. She was full of generous impulses, and 
if she valued people in proportion to the use which 
they might be to her, she was not alone in so doing. 

Gerald, who knew her well enough to say pretty 
much what he liked, had said to her at the beginning 
of the evening, 

“ You see Hartford ?” 

“ Which do you call Hartford?” was Miss Nor- 
folk’s question. 

“ That smart-looking little chap talking to Le 
Marchant. He has three or four thousand a year 
— not so bad, you know, in hard times. He has 
no relations. He is a friend of mine. Talk to 
him.” 

“ Impertinent ! ” said Miss Norfolk at the time, 
smiling. But she made a mental note of the in- 
formation. 

Her thoughts ran somewhat in this wise 

“ Mr. Hartford is not a bad little chap. I wish 
he were a little bit more like — like Mr. Ventnor, for 
example. How unhappy Mr. Ventnor might make 
a woman who was foolish enough to fall in love 
with him. I think Mrs. Ruthven is prettier than any 
one I ever saw. I think I shall like her. I know 
this sort of woman. She will give small dinner- 
parties, and she will be glad of unencumbered girls. 


Time and the Woman 


25 


Thank goodness, mamma doesn’t send us out in 
pairs. Mrs. Ruthven might be of the greatest use 
to me ! Her daughter is ten times as good-looking as 
I am, but I don’t fancy, somehow, that she would 
interfere much with any one.” 

Mrs. Ruthven was talking of her plans, and Miss 
Norfolk ceased speculating in order to listen. She 
accomplished the double feat of hearing all that the 
others were saying, and keeping up a conversation 
at the same time with Hartford. 

“ I am looking for a small furnished house, you 
know, or a flat, or something. Mrs. Sandon is very 
kindly putting me up till I get what I want. My 
husband’s plans are so unsettled, that for the present 
I shall have to make my own arrangements.” 

“ A small house? ” said Ventnor. 

“ A small house,” said Mrs. Ruthven. “ It must 
be small, because, as there are only Araby and my- 
self, I don’t want the bother of a lot of servants.” 

Gerald thought he knew of such a house, and so 
the mischief, such as it was, began. Mrs. Sandon 
A was unwittingly to blame for asking Gerald to dinner 
on this particular evening. Gerald’s mother never 
forgave her, and said all sorts of things about her, 
some of which were repeated. This of course was 
later on when the house was taken, and the annexa- 
tion of Gerald appeared complete. 

The immediate result of the night’s work which 


26 


Time and the Woman 


began in Mrs. Sandon’s dining-room in Earl Street, 
and was forwarded at the theatre and the club, was 
an appointment for the next day. 

“ Let us say at Castanet’s in Bond Street,” said 
Gerald. “ My cousin’s house is in Primate Street, 
Berkeley Square, and we can have chocolate at 
Castanet’s before we go there.” 

Mrs. Ruthven agreed. 

“ You save me no end of trouble,” she said. “ I 
was dreading house-hunting.” 

After a while the ladies rose to go. 

“ Four o’clock to-morrow, then,” said Gerald, 
forgetting for the moment the time of year as he 
put them into a hansom. 

“ Four o’clock,” said Mrs. Ruthven, with the smile 
that had lingered painfully ere then in more than 
one chained memory. 

Ventnor and Hartford went back into the club, 
and made their way to the smoking-room. Gerald 
called for cigars. 

“ What do you think of that for a pretty 
woman ? ” he said. 

Now Mrs. Ruthven had taken small notice of 
Ventnor’s friend; but, curiously enough (or per- 
haps, since human nature is perverse, for this very 
reason), it was on him that she had made the greater 
impression. While Miss Norfolk had aired her 
advanced ideas, his eyes had wandered again and 


Time and the Woman 


27 


again to Mrs. Ruthven’ s face. He went home rest- 
less and Ventnor complacent. 

Mrs. Ruthven, meanwhile, having left Miss Nor- 
folk safely at home in Sloane Street, drove thence to 
Mrs. Sandon’s. 

The one trick which her thirty-seven years played 
her was that, allowing her to look twenty-eight till 
midnight, by lurking in good-natured ambush, after 
a long evening they occasionally came out thence, and 
asserted the fact of their existence. When Mrs. 
Ruthven looked into her glass that night before 
undressing, she saw that which scarcely pleased her. 
She had sent home directions to her maid not to sit 
up for her, and she was alone. She stood for a long 
time looking at herself. Then she left her room, and 
crossed the landing to another door. She opened it 
without knocking, and went in. 

It was a bedroom. A fire was burning brightly 
in the grate, and the light of it flickered on the walls, 
and glittered on the silver and glass of the equip- 
ments of the dressing-table. The glow of the leap- 
ing flames lit up Araby’s shining hair. Mrs. 
Ruthven approached the bed, and contemplated her 
daughter for some moments. The even fringe of 
the lashes outlined the curve of the closed eyelids; 
a delicate flush was on her face; the red lips were 
closed, and the gentle breath was drawn silently 
through the nostrils. A slender hand lay on the 


28 


Time and the Woman 


coverlet, which rose and fell with the even move- 
ment of the bosom. 

Perhaps a passing admiration, or a sudden in- 
stinct of affection came to Araby’s mother as she 
stood there. She leant over the sleeping girl as if to 
kiss her, but at this moment Araby stirred. A flame 
leapt in the fire. The bright hair blazed with color. 
How smooth was the delicate skin, how smooth, and 
clear, and unworn, and young! 

It was with a hand that expressed impatience 
that Mrs. Ruthven roused her daughter. 

Araby gave a little cry, and woke. 

“ Is anything the matter ? ” she asked in a startled 
voice. 

The firelight was very bright, and made her 
blink. She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles like 
a child. 

“ What should be the matter? ” said her mother, 
shortly. “ Sit up, please, while I speak to you, and 
listen to what I say.” 

Araby said, “ Yes, mother,” and obeyed. She 
pushed back the hair from her face. 

“ How absurdly like your father you are some- 
times,” said Mrs. Ruthven, — “ irritatingly like him. 
Your hair is redder than his though, and I hate 
red hair. Well, don’t look indignant.” 

“ I didn’t look indignant — ” began Araby. 

“ Pardon me,” said her mother, “ you did. And 


Time and the Woman 


29 


if you didn’t I choose to say you did, so don’t again. 
If you and I are to get on, you must learn not to 
contradict me.” 

Araby was silent, and Mrs. Ruthven smiled quietly 
to herself. 

“ Now you are cross,” she said next. 

“ Indeed I am not,” protested Araby. 

“ I say you are,” said Mrs. Ruthven. (“ Really,” 
she added in parenthesis, “ the color of your hair 
makes my eyes ache.) Well, I choose to say you 
are ; it pleases me to think you are cross.” 

“ Very well, I am cross,” said Araby, with tears 
near her eyes. 

“ Now you are impudent,” said her mother. 

Mrs. Ruthven sat down on the edge of the bed. 
It was a curious thing perhaps, but a fact neverthe- 
less, that she took a keen pleasure in teasing her 
daughter. Possibly the girl was easy to tease. 

“ I didn’t mean — ” Araby began. 

But happily for her at this moment a little 
traveling clock that stood upon the mantelpiece 
struck, and reminded Mrs. Ruthven of the lateness 
of the hour. 

“ Never mind what you meant, dear, or did not 
mean,” she said. “ What I woke you to tell you was, 
that I don’t want to be called in the morning. You 
must stop Olympe on her way to my door, so don’t 
oversleep yourself.” 


30 


Time and the Woman 


“ Very well, mother.” 

“And tell them to send up my breakfast when 
I ring. Make any civil apology you like, and don’t 
be clumsy about it. Good-night.” 

“ Good-night, mother.” 

Araby was asleep again in a few minutes, but 
Mrs. Ruthven lay awake for two hours. 


Time and the Woman 


31 


CHAPTER III. 

Araby woke early, and was in time to catch 
Olympe. 

Olympe was not exactly a soubrette. There was 
a good deal of her, though it was very neat and trim 
in its way. She was proud of her waist, which was 
small if only by contrast with the very ample propor- 
tions of such parts of her as, in the physical economy 
of her figure, were above and below it, and she had 
a trick of resting her hands upon her round hips in a 
way that showed its curves freely. She had a certain 
affection for powder, and her complexion did her 
credit, since she made it for herself. Olympe in 
the morning and Olympe in the evening were two 
different people, and Olympe dressed to go out was 
described by Mrs. Sandon as a duchess. 

She had been in the service of Mrs. Ruthven for 
a year. The lady who had taken her out to India, 
and from whom the home-returning Mrs. Ruthven 
engaged her, said 

“ She has eyes in the back of her head, and at 
the ends of her eight fingers and her two thumbs, and 
she has ears that defy walls; but she is invaluable, 


32 


Time and the Woman 


and if she would only stay with me I would keep her 
for ever.” 

To Araby’s recital of her mother’s orders Olympe 
said 

“ All aright. Oh whatta bore ! I arise too soon. 
I get up at coq cro’. All in vain. Je ne ferai pas 
monter le dejeuner de madame avant neuf heures et 
demie. Voila encore une heure. I might ’ave slept 
again ’alf an hour. Ah whatta pity! Madame 
enjoyed her evening? and mademoiselle aussi? 
That’s right.” 

Olympe knew madame well. Those merry little 
black eyes of hers were very shrewd. She left the 
room smiling. 

Mrs. Sandon’s establishment was somewhat 
limited, and it chanced that Olympe, who could turn 
her hand to anything, had volunteered to assist in 
waiting at dinner on the preceding evening. She 
had thus seen something of the annexation of 
Gerald. 

“ Oh, I know something — me ! I am not a mush- 
room born to-day. We go to supper. We sit up 
late. Alors ce matin we take a little rest. We see 
monsieur again to-day, I make a bet.” 

Araby herself scarcely looked younger than her 
mother when Mrs. Ruthven came down a little 
later on. 

Mrs. Sandon was of that attractive type of 


Time and the Woman 


33 


hostess that leaves her guests to amuse themselves 
instead of mapping out for them tedious diversions. 
It would not, here be it said, have been very easy 
to map out anything for Mrs. Ruthven against her 
will. She was an adept, she said of herself, at 
getting out of things. Mrs. Sandon asked her her 
plans. 

“ Well, we shan’t be in for lunch,” said her 
cousin, buttoning her gloves. “ I am going to take 
Araby out to shop, and she must chaperon me to 
lunch at the Wellington.” 

Mrs. Sandon chuckled, and murmured something 
about the whole duty of daughters. 

“ Then I believe I have found a house. That 
nice boy who gave us supper last night has an 
aunt or something who wants to let hers in Primate 
Street. I am going to see it this afternoon.” 

Araby came into the room at this moment. She 
was dressed for walking. Her mother looked at her 
critically from her hat to her boots. She was wear- 
ing a dress of two shades of brown, against which 
the red of her hair struck a third brilliant note of 
color. The sense of harmony was complete; Mrs. 
Ruthven found herself admiring her daughter in 
spite of her prejudices. 

The day was bright and clear; sunshine gilded 
London. There was a very blue sky, and the tops 
of the houses stood out against it clearly. Mrs. 


34 


Time and the Woman 


Ruthven, with her throat nestling in soft fur, and 
a hat that looked very simple but that was in fact 
an elaborate creation, and threw a bewildering 
shadow over her eyes, was conscious that she was 
the prettiest woman in town, and accordingly was 
very gracious to Araby. 

“ I am not sure,’* she said, “ I am not sure that 
you are not useful as a contrast. You have some 
good points. Your style is very good, Araby, and 
if you would only take the trouble to acquire a more 
— what shall I say? — a more twentieth century 
manner you would get on. Why didn’t you talk 
last night? You allowed Miss Norfolk to monop- 
olize Mr. Hartford; you must learn to be entertain- 

• „ a 

mg. 

Araby flushed slightly. 

“ Would you wish me to be like Miss Norfolk? ” 
she asked with a little hesitation. 

. “ Why not ? ” said her mother. “ A pleasant and 
sensible girl.” 

She stopped the hansom as she spoke, and the 
two ladies alighted opposite a jeweller’s in Picca- 
dilly. The window held an attractive array of sil- 
ver cigarette cases and match-boxes. Mrs. Ruthven 
wished to buy a present for a friend in India. She 
professed herself enchanted with the silver cases on 
which, in bright enamels, were painted Sapphos, and 
ballet girls, and burlesque boys. Araby thought 


Time and the Woman 


35 


them pretty too, but they did not interest her, and 
one or two of them seemed to her of questionable 
decency. She was learning, however, that she must 
hold her tongue and judge nothing. 

While her mother bought her presents Araby’s 
thoughts ran to Miss Norfolk, the pleasant and 
sensible girl who had been held up to her as a 
pattern. Possibly Araby’s training had made her 
narrow. She was quite ready to admit that this 
might be so, and perhaps there was less that was 
wrong than she supposed in some of the daring 
remarks which she had overheard Miss Norfolk 
make to Hartford at the theatre. Araby scarcely 
yet understood a type that is in reality harmless, and 
that likes, nevertheless, to pretend to a knowledge of 
the seamy side of life. Miss Norfolk delighted in 
being a little outrageous, and the fact that she knew 
Araby was slightly shocked had not tended to make 
her modify her sentiments. 

Araby thought of her country home. Eccram, 
where her dull and happy childhood had been passed, 
must be illumined to-day by this golden autumn sun. 
The trees must be gorgeous, yellow, orange, red. 
But Eccram was beautiful at all times; and Araby 
sighed as she thought of it. Her life there was 
monotonous, and in a certain sense cramped, but it 
had its quiet pleasures, and she missed its content. 

She was attracted and repelled by the new life. 


36 


Time and the Woman 


She was fascinated and frightened. She had been 
strictly brought up ; now she found herself in a place 
where nothing was wrong, and where conscience 
was an inconvenience. As yet she was unable to 
affix a just value to anything. She was bewildered 
by a sense of inability to grasp the meaning of much 
that went on around her. She had had all sorts of 
ideas, which she was beginning to look upon as 
primitive. Amongst them had been the odd, not to 
say ridiculous, supposition, that marriage was the 
concentration of the affections upon one object. 
She tried vainly to adjust a balance between the 
standards of right and wrong which prevailed in 
the world she was entering, and her own precon- 
ceived notions of good and bad. And yet she had 
been taught, she supposed, what others too had 
learnt. 

Of her mother she could only think with an over- 
powering wonder. She scarcely tried to understand 
her, so completely did Mrs. Ruthven seem beyond 
her comprehension in its present state. The early 
separation, and the subsequent living apart of the 
mother and daughter, had prevented any close ex- 
change of affection. Yet, under like conditions, 
Araby felt that she knew her father far more 
intimately than she knew her mother. She had seen 
him, it was true, once since the first parting at 
Eccram, when both her parents had left her in the 


Time and the Woman 


37 


care of the Miss Woottons. The impression which 
his kindness, during his short visit to England, made 
upon her was never forgotten, and in this of course 
Corbet Ruthven had the advantage of his wife. To 
Araby her father had a personality, her mother was 
a name. Mrs. Ruthven wrote constantly, but Araby 
always missed something in her letters which instinct 
told her should be there; and whatever it might be 
that her letters lacked, those of her father possessed 
in a degree that insisted upon comparison. Corbet’s 
letters were short, informal, and without any preten- 
sion to style. They were irregular in their arrival, 
and sometimes they contained but a few words in 
answer perhaps to a question of his daughter’s ; still 
they bore unmistakably the evidence of an affection 
which distance could not blunt. 

A thing that had often puzzled Araby . at the 
time was the absence in them of allusions to her 
mother. Mrs. Ruthven wrote at precise intervals 
and often at some length. She had a plausible pen, 
and she could write all sorts of things that were 
beautiful in point of sentiment. Araby thought of 
the letter announcing the return to England. It con- 
tained many touching protestations. She remem- 
bered the time of waiting that succeeded it — a time 
full of anticipations and wonderings, fraught with 
a certain nervousness, which she tried in vain to 
allay. She remembered the throb of admiration and 


38 


Time and the Woman 


pride with which she greeted the beautiful woman 
in whom she recognized her mother. Something 
chilled her in her mother’s kiss. 

The jewellery, the shopman, and the cigarette 
cases vanished ; a dewy brightness was coming into 
Araby’s eyes, when the sudden rising of Mrs. 
Ruthven, consequent upon the completion of her pur- 
chase, recalled her to the present. The final direc- 
tions as to the sending of the parcel had been given. 

“ Come, Araby, I am waiting.” 

“ Yes, mother.” 

“ You weren’t much help to me in choosing what 
I bought.” 

Araby scented danger. 

“ I didn’t think you wanted me to help you, 
mother.” 

“ You are always thinking or not thinking, Araby 
— another fault I have to find with you.” 

Araby said nothing. People looked at the two 
beautiful women as they passed, and no one who 
thought of it, guessed the relationship in which they 
stood to each other. Piccadilly was bright with 
color. 

“ Don’t sulk, dear ; it is not attractive.” 

“ Mother, I am not sulking.” 

“And don’t answer me,” said Mrs. Ruthven; “it 
is like a servant.” 

Mrs. Ruthven after this continued to bait her 


Time and the Woman 


39 


daughter for some twenty minutes, and to the verge 
of tears. Araby bore with her patiently. She was 
gentle by nature, and moreover, one of the things 
that she had learnt from the old aunts at Eccram 
was the duty of a child to its parents. So she walked 
beside her mother, doing her best to keep her temper, 
and succeeding in a way which, had she only known 
it, was the cause of her protracted torture. She was 
wondering whether her mother was cruel. She took 
an opportunity presently of looking at her. It was 
impossible to read cruelty in the unruffled good- 
humor of the face ; Arsby decided that at once. And 
yet those red lips could say words that stung. How 
very, very charming her mother looked in her soft 
furs, and how much Araby could have cared for her 
if she had been allowed ! 

“ Don’t stare, Araby ; it is bad manners. Do 
you know that you have been wretchedly brought 
up? I shall be writing to those two dreadful old 
aunts of your father’s, in a day or two, and I shall 
make a point of telling them what I think.” 

“Don’t do that,” said Araby, quickly. “They 
have been very good to me always. You know 
that, mother. They have done their best for me, 
and if you think I have turned out badly it isn’t 
their fault. Oh, they were so good to me. When 
I was ill that time two years ago, they took it in 
turns to sit up with me, and Aunt Laura is not a 


40 


Time and the Woman 


bit strong herself. You mustn’t blame them for 
anything. . 

Araby broke off. Her heart grew big at the 
thought of the old life, with its quiet happiness 
and its atmosphere of love. She could hear noth- 
ing that attacked Eccram. 

“ They never thought of themselves,” she began, 
but her mother interrupted her. 

“ They spoilt you then,” she said. “ And now 
I know what it is — you are a spoilt child. And 
I hate spoilt children. And I shall write all the 
same. And you mustn’t argue with me. And I 
want some gloves. I am going to take you through 
the Burlington Arcade, so don’t look about you.” 

Then Araby found herself wondering whether her 
mother was not laughing in her sleeve. She could 
not tell. Perhaps it may have been the result of a 
meeting which took place at this moment, but for 
whatever reason, Mrs. Ruthven presently altered her 
manner, and was thenceforward enchanting, as she 
alone knew how to be, for the rest of the morning. 

It was Hartford who was strolling disconso- 
lately down the middle of the Arcade. His face 
brightened as his eyes caught those of Mrs. Ruthven. 
He turned about and walked with the two ladies 
to the glove shop. After his first smile of recog- 
nition he looked tragic and spoke bitterly. Possibly 
Mrs. Ruthven saw and knew the signs of her con- 


Time and the Woman 


41 


quest. She asked him why he seemed unhappy. 
There was nothing, he answered, to make him 
seem anything else. In any case, what matter? 
Life was made up of unhappiness, and the hap- 
piest were those who caused most to others and 
who suffered least themselves. 

But it did matter, said Mrs. Ruthven, laughing 
softly. And why did he speak in riddles? and why 
was he so bitter? 

“ How old are you, my good boy ? ” 

He told her. 

She laughed again. 

“At your age to think life used up! To have 
weighed it all and found it wanting at twenty-four ! 
Araby, if you want any gloves buy them now. Not? 
Very well. How much do they come to? You will 
be sure to send them to-day. No, that’s all, thank 
you.” 

Hartford watched her as she put on once more 
her own glove. What a white Jiand it was. Her 
rings sparkled in the artificial light of the shop. 

“ Now I am ready,” she said, as she folded up 
the bill and put it into her purse. “ It is very nice of 
you not to be bored with my shopping, Mr. Hart- 
ford. Now Araby and I are going to lunch at the 
Wellington. The streets are so dry I think we’ll 
walk. I don’t believe you. You didn’t look a bit 
when we met you as if you were intending to walk 
along Piccadilly.” 


42 


Time and the Woman 


“ I intended nothing,” said Hartford. “ I had no 
aims. I have no aims. But if you will let me I 
should like to walk with you as far as the Welling- 
ton.” 

He cheered up somewhat in the course of the 
next few minutes, but he became sombre as the 
three approached their destination. At the door of 
the club Mrs. Ruthven held out her hand. 

“ You want a good talking to,” she said, “ and a 
great deal of good advice. When shall I give you 
both? I shall be at home to-morrow afternoon, 
if you like to come and see me.” 

He hesitated. His sister was passing through 
town, and he had promised to meet her and devote to 
her a couple of hours. 

“ Just as you like,” said Mrs. Ruthven. 

“ You know which I should like,” he said, hotly. 

Mrs. Ruthven shrugged her shoulders. All ges- 
tures took a charm which was not their own when 
she employed them. They seemed too to acquire a 
hew eloquence. 

“ At five then to-morrow,” he said. 

He raised his hat and went over to the Bachelors* 
to lunch, and to write to the sister who was to pass 
through London on the morrow, and who was 
counting upon a glimpse of her brother. 

After all, he wrote, and he was awfully sorry, an 
unforeseen and pressing matter would prevent his 


Time and the Woman 


43 


meeting her at Paddington. He would send his 
servant to see that she got a good hansom to take 
her over to Charing Cross. He was really very 
sorry, and he would try to run down home some 
time soon. 

He drank a pint of champagne, perhaps as the 
result of his present frame of mind, for at lunch he 
was not in the habit of this extravagance, perhaps to 
shut out the persistent vision of his sister’s eyes with 
tears in them. 


44 


Time and the Woman 


CHAPTER IV. 

Mrs Ruthven after lunch took Araby back to 
Earl Street. She sat for some time with her hostess. 
She had a delightful way of never coming in with- 
out having a good deal to tell, and she entertained 
Mrs. Sandon with an account of her morning. 

“ But I won’t have you making my pet young men 
unhappy,” said Mrs. Sandon with her chuckle. 

Mrs. Ruthven laughed merrily. 

“ And now I suppose you mean to try your powers 
upon Gerald Ventnor ? ” said Mrs. Sandon. “ John- 
nie, dear, I disapprove of you dreadfully.” 

“ But you rather like me,” said Mrs. Ruthven. 

“ And very much against my better judgment,” 
said Mrs. Sandon. 

Mrs. Ruthven kissed her, and rang for a hansom, 
in which when it arrived she set out for Bond Street. 

“ She will burn her fingers yet,” said Mrs. San- 
don to herself, as she heard the wheels roll away. 
Then she bethought her of Araby, for whom she 
was really in a manner sorry. 

“ I am afraid for them both,” she thought, shak- 
ing her head. 


Time and the Woman 


45 


Her way of being kind to her friends was to in- 
troduce them to smart people. Accordingly, she 
told Araby that she was going to take her out driv- 
ing with her, and Araby had a kindly and dull after- 
noon of stately visits. In the course of these she 
made the acquaintance of Lady Ventnor, mother to 
Gerald of that ilk. Lady Ventnor disapproved of 
girls, only less keenly than she disapproved of young 
married women. She was, Mrs. Sandon averred, in 
a perpetual state of apprehension lest her son should 
entangle himself. 

“ And it is my one large endeavor to alarm her, ,, 
the old lady said afterwards. “ That’s why I asked 
him to dinner to meet your mother. She is not 
exactly a young woman, but she is dangerous for all 
that. I wonder what Lady Ventnor would have 
said if she had known that her boy was now at 
Castanet’s with the prettiest woman in London.” 

The shop presented its usual gay appearance. 
The window held a bright array of cases in costly 
device for holding every form of delicate bonbon. 
Pink was for the day the prevailing color. Man- 
dolins tied with pink ribbons were cunning recep- 
tacles for the most recent form of chocolate nougat 
or burnt almond. 

Gerald Ventnor was standing a few yards from 
the door when Mrs. Ruthven’s hansom drew up. 
He was talking to the great dog that sprawled on 
the threshold of an adjacent milliner’s. 


46 


Time and the Woman 


Mrs. Ruthven saw him before he saw her, and 
while she was still unobserved she gave him a quick 
glance of critical approval; and, in truth, he looked 
fresh and neat and smart in a way that was essen- 
tially English. 

He raised his head and saw her. 

“ I haven’t kept you waiting? ” she asked. 

“ You are punctual. I was before my time. ,, 

They entered the shop. Some sugar violets 
caught Mrs. Ruthven’s attention, and she asked him 
whether they did not look as real and Neapolitan as 
those that she was wearing. No. Not that table. 
There — that one at the end. 

Ventnor followed her as she threaded her way 
between the chairs and tables to the place she had 
chosen. He felt a certain complacent pride in her 
beauty as he saw how people nudged each other as 
she passed. 

An attendant poured chocolate into minute cups. 
Gerald looked with amusement at the brown liquid 
which he hated, but which in fhe present instance 
had its use as a pretext for half an hour’s amuse- 
ment. 

Mrs. Ruthven had singled out an old woman, 
glaringly made up and dressed with an outrageous 
disregard of her age, who was fumbling with 
trembling fingers for a coin in her purse. As she 
turned away Mrs. Ruthven met Gerald’s look of 
inquiry. 


Time and the Woman 47 

“ That is what I shall come to some day,” she 
said, with a shudder. She felt as if she had looked 
on death. 

Nonsense,” said Ventnor, cheerfully. Mrs. Ruth- 
ven was to him as old as she looked, and that was 
considerably under thirty. He did not remember 
Araby at the moment, but Mrs. Ruthven remem- 
bered her. Araby was to her the outward and visible 
sign of many things that she would have liked to 
forget. But the mood did not last. Mrs. Ruthven 
caught sight of her face in a mirror,, and she was 
re-assured. Years are long, and age was still a 
great way off. The thought too of Hartford’s re- 
cent restlessness contributed at this moment to re- 
mind her that her charm was potent as ever. After 
all, if Araby had not existed 

“ You met Hartford this morning,” Gerald said, 
interrupting her thoughts. 

“ How do you know that ? ” 

“ I left him half an hour ago at the club. He’s 
an odd chap — moody, uncertain. He has no 
A troubles except those he makes for himself, and he 
is rather good at making them.” 

Gerald was smiling. 

“ What sort of troubles ? ” 

“ Love,” said Ventnor. He put down his empty 
cup, and wondered why he drank chocolate when he 
did not care for it. 


48 


Time and the Woman 


Mrs. Ruthven looked at him inquiringly. Inci- 
dentally, she noted a small scar on his face. It was 
just below his left eye, and it was the result of a 
fall in the hunting-field. 

“ The odd part of it is,” he said presently, still 
smiling meditatively, “ that his experiences teach 
him no wisdom. He falls in love perhaps three 
times in a year — seriously. All his heart affairs are 
serious. They take him differently at different times. 
He will be silent, or he will talk bitterly of every- 
thing, till all’s blue. He suffers acutely while the 
fit is on him. His life is full of one person for the 
time being — full, I tell you. He knows that a month 
later he may be feeling all the same things for and 
about some one else, but while he is under the spell 
of any particular woman she could make him do 
anything.” 

“ He is as tractable as all that ? ” 

“ He is absolutely tractable. He is like the lover 
in the fairy story, who is willing to perform any 
task an exacting mistress may choose to set him. 
You remember the sort of thing one used to read — - 
‘ Before I can marry you, said the Princess, you must 
bring me the wishing flower, which blooms at moon- 
rise on the glass mountain, which is guarded day and 
night by the dragon of the sleepless eye/ Hartford 
would be off like a shot.” 

Mrs. Ruthven made a mental note of this trait 


Time and the Woman 


49 


in Hartford’s character. It did not occur to her 
just then that it was at all probable that it could 
ever be of use to her, but she remembered it for all 
that. 

“ Let us go and see the house,” she said. 

“ No; let us sit on here for a little while.” 

“ Very well; tell me something more about your 
friend.” 

“ You take a great interest in him. I don’t know 
any more.” 

People came and went. The attendants moved 
deftly to and fro. There was a hum of talk, and the 
occasional sound of the pouring of almonds or cara- 
mels into the brass bowl of a scale. The little 
French maid swung the door open and shut. 

“We can’t sit here any longer,” said Mrs. Ruth- 
ven, presently. “ Come, let us go and see the 
house.” 

The autumn afternoon had begun to close in. 
Lights on cabs and carriages flashed past in Bond 
Street. 

“ Why, it is nearly dark,” said Mrs. Ruthven. “ I 
forgot that it would be dark. Why didn’t you re- 
mind me ? ” 

“ I didn’t think of it at the time,” Gerald con- 
fessed, “ and afterwards — ” 

“ Well — afterwards ? ” 

“ It is too late to go now, anyway,” he said, “ isn’t 


50 


Time and the Woman 


it? You ought to see it in the day-time, oughtn’t 
you? You can’t see a house comfortably in the 
dark. It is a thing to do in the morning. I ought 
to be kicked, oughtn’t I ? ” 

“ I think so,” said Mrs. Ruthven. 

He followed her into the street. 

“ Then to-morrow morning,” he said ; “ have you 
anything to do to-morrow morning ? Will you come 
then?” 

“ It is partly my own fault,” said Mrs. Ruthven, 
“ or I think I should be angry with you.” 

“ But I am contrite,” said Gerald, “ and I want 
you to forgive me. I honestly forgot at the time, 
and when I thought of telegraphing, I saw a way of 
doubling a pleasure, and I gave way to the tempta- 
tion. No, you don’t want a hansom yet. Let us go 
and see some pictures, in token that you bear me no 
malice. What is there? Let us go into the first 
gallery we come to.” 

They began to walk down the street. She was 
in truth nothing loth to know that she should see 
him the next day. 

“ You will come to-morrow ? ” 

“ I will go to-morrow.” 

“ You are not angry? ” 

“ No.” 

The visit to the gallery was not quite successful. 
It chanced that Mrs. Sandon, having come to an end 


Time and the Woman 


51 


of her cards, had proposed to show Araby some 
pictures. Araby had seen nothing, and was de- 
lighted. There was a picture of note at the gallery 
which Gerald and Mrs. Ruthven had happened tg 
enter. 


52 


Time and the Woman 


CHAPTER V. 

Mrs. Ruthven established herself in Primate 
Street. The house, with the usual drawbacks, was 
as nearly as possible the sort of house she was seek- 
ing, and matters were quickly arranged. Gerald 
Ventnor’s cousin bounced off in high glee to Cannes 
or Mentone, and Lady Ventnor raised her eyebrows 
and said to her daughter — 

“ Who is this Mrs. Ruthven who has taken 
Audrey’s house ? ” 

Miss Ventnor, it happened, shared Mrs. Sandon’s 
delight in causing Lady Ventnor alarm on Gerald’s 
account, so she said — 

“ The mother of that very lovely girl with the 
sunset hair who came here one day with Mrs. San- 
don. But Gerald can tell you more. They are his 
friends. He speaks of Mrs. Ruthven as one of the 
most charming women he has ever seen.” 

“ I never like Mrs. Sandon’s friends,” said Lady 
Ventnor. “ I don’t know what it is about her, but 
I never quite trust that woman.” 

“ That woman,” said Miss Ventnor, with Gerald’s 
smile. 


Time and the Woman 


53 


“ Well, you know, her mother,” began Lady Vent- 

nor, “ was one of those ” 

“ Which isn’t true,” said Miss Ventnor, averting 
a little tale of scandal. “ The whole story was con- 
tradicted, and in any case you were glad enough to 
make friends with them and secure their interest for 
papa when he first stood for the Lecton division of 
Midlandshire, and they lived in the county.” 

“ My dear, that was a political matter.” 

“ Gerald’s going to take me to see Mrs. Ruthven,” 
said Miss Ventnor. “He says she is delightful to 
girls if she likes them. He goes there every day 
himself, and I really believe that is what is keeping 
him in town. He says of course that he can’t hunt 
till the alterations in the stables at home are finished, 
but / think—” 

“ What do you think ? ” 

“ Well, he goes to Primate Street every day. I 
wonder which he goes to see, Mrs. Ruthven or her 
daughter. They are both apparently the same age.” 

Lady Ventnor had a fearful quarter of an hour, 
and when a visitor during the course of the after- 
noon happened casually to mention Mrs. Ruthven’s 
name in connection with that of Gerald, Lady Vent- 
nor, to her daughter’s keen amusement, said some- 
thing about not being acquainted with Mrs. — er — • 
Ruthven, a friend, she understood, of Mrs. Sandon, 
whom she therewith began to abuse. 


54 


Time and the Woman 


Mrs. Sandon in course of time heard much of 
what Lady Ventnor said, and it made her chuckle, 
whenever she thought of it, off and on for a week. 

The few months that had followed directly upon 
Mrs. Ruthven’s return from India had been spent in 
visits with her daughter to friends and relations in 
the country and London, consequently it was now 
that Araby was having her first real experience of 
her mother’s unrelieved society. Less than ever 
did she understand the brilliant woman to whom she 
was so nearly related. 

Araby’s chief sensation was one of loneliness. 
Not that the house in Primate Street was ever 
empty; a constant succession of visitors filled the 
drawing-room. Friends of Mrs. Sandon called, and 
these were many, friends and relations of Mrs. Ruth- 
ven herself, and others. Mrs. Ruthven dined out 
constantly, and Araby, who was not to be presented 
till the spring, was left much to herself. A girl 
whose instincts were less affectionate would have 
suffered less. She longed for her father in these 
days, and she looked on into the future with dread. 
The return of her mother was, she told herself, the 
beginning of sorrows. She began to understand 
something perhaps of the state of affairs that existed 
between her parents, and this did not tend to make 
her happier. 

Mrs. Ruthven collected young men as a stone 


Time and the Woman 


55 


gathers moss. They sprung from everywhere. 
Some of these were attentive to Araby, but she was 
reserved just then and unresponsive. 

So passed November and December. Mrs. Ruth- 
ven had reached England in August. 

Mrs. Sandon watched Primate Street with amuse- 
ment, but with fear also. 

“ You can’t reason with Johnnie,” she said to her- 
self. “ I have a sort of idea that Araby ought to be 
taken away from her, but what can one do ? I have 
an uncomfortable feeling that where the girl is con- 
cerned Johnnie is absolutely unscrupulous. I am 
horribly afraid of Araby being somehow sacrificed. 
I don’t know a bit in what way or why. I am appre- 
hensive — just that, apprehensive.” 

Mrs. Ruthven meanwhile, in her irresponsible way, 
was uncertain as a barometer. One day she made 
herself so delightful to her daughter that Araby 
herself began to hope for the future; the next noth- 
ing satisfied her. And Araby, so far as she knew, 
was blameless. In a hundred small ways she tried 
to please her mother, and she failed. 

“ You are so aggressively unlike me,” Mrs. Ruth- 
ven said one day. “ There is no chance of my ever 
getting to care for you, except by fits and starts. 
Perhaps you may say that I am not the sort of 
woman who ever does like girls. You are quite 
impudent enough to say so.” 


56 Time and the Woman 

She paused for Araby to protest, as at one time, 
and before she had learnt a certain wisdom, she 
would have protested, but Araby was silent. 

“ But you are wrong,” Mrs. Ruthven continued, 
impatient that her assertion should not have evoked 
a contradiction. “ You are wrong, as you are about 
most things that concern your mother. I like some 
girls very much. And I can tell you that girls adore 
me. I see you don’t believe me, but it is true. They 
look up to me. The only thing for it will be for me 
to marry you early — if I can. You will have to 
accept the first man who makes you an offer, Araby. 
I don’t care who he is, you will have to marry him.” 

Araby’s laugh had a shade of defiance. 

“ I see nothing to laugh at,” her mother said, 
with a grave mouth but with twinkling eyes that up- 
set Araby’s theories. Mrs. Ruthven was inscrutable 
upon occasion as the Sphinx or Gerald himself, and 
withal she was made up of contradictions to a de- 
gree that was bewildering. “ Nothing on earth to 
laugh at,” she continued ; “ you may never get one at 
all. Men don’t admire you, and your flaring hair 
will probably warn a good many off.” 

“ Mr. Ventnor,” said Araby, quietly, “ said my 
hair reminded him of Romney’s Lady Hamilton.” 

“ I know he pretends to admire it,” said Mrs. 
Ruthven, “and it is really very good-natured of 
him. Well, a few people may like it. It isn’t jeaL 
ousy, dear; it makes my eyes ache.” 


Time and the Woman 


57 


But Araby could see for herself the value of her 
own brilliance of coloring, and on this point her 
mother could not wound her. 

“ If you don’t marry in a year,” said Mrs. Ruth- 
ven, “ I think I shall send you out to India ; I think 
I shall have done my share by that time, and your 
father will have to take his turn. He shirks all his 
responsibilities. What’s that you say ? ” 

“ I said ‘ Poor father ! ’ ” said Araby. 

“ Go to your own room.” Mrs. Ruthven’s eyes 
did not twinkle. “ Go to your own room, and don’t 
come down till I give you leave.” 

Araby, goaded to anger, had it on the tip of 
her tongue to remind Mrs. Ruthven that her daugh- 
ter was no longer a child. But the vengeance would 
have been too exquisite, and Araby thought better 
of it. She selected a book to take with her. 

“ Put that down! ” said her mother. 

Araby hesitated, and — obeyed. 

“ You are not to do anything. You are to sit 
with your hands in your lap, till you are in a 
better frame of mind.” 

Araby left the room. Her lips trembled with 
her just rage, but she did not slam the door, as 
Mrs. Ruthven hoped. 

On the landing, a square white place, with min- 
iature pillars and yellow silk hangings Araby met 
Ventnor. He was, as we know, a constant visitor 


58 


Time and the Woman 


in Primate Street, and he came up sometimes with- 
out being announced. There was nothing to mark 
this chance meeting, yet each afterwards attached 
to it a curious importance. It was as if the eyes 
of both were opened. Araby, who had seen him a 
hundred times, thought that she had never before 
quite known what he was like; and he for the first 
time was struck with her beauty. The recent pas- 
sage at arms had heightened the pink in her cheeks, 
and her eyes were sparkling. 

He shook hands with her. She was going to pass 
on, but he stopped her. 

“ Why do you run away? ” 

She laughed softly. She had a musical laugh. He 
detected in it a curious ring. 

“ It isn’t polite, you know, to run away the min- 
ute I arrive. Come back into the drawing-room. Is 
Mrs. Ruthven there ? ” 

“ Yes, mother is there. But I won’t go back.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

He wished to detain her. He wondered that she 
had not impressed him before. What bright eyes 
she had ! How fine and delicate and fresh was her 
skin! 

“Why not?” 

“ Because — ” 

She was half inclined to tell him. After all, it was 
so very ridiculous. Her mother deserved that he 
should be told. 


Time and the Woman 


59 


But instead she laughed again, shook her head, and 
left him. He watched her as she bounded lightly up 
the narrow white stairs. 

Mrs. Ruthven hailed his appearance with manifest 
delight. She was a woman who could not bear to 
be alone. She was bored, and she was already re- 
gretting having sent Araby away, and so deprived 
herself of the pleasure of teasing her. 

“ Oh, it is so dull,” she said, “ so appallingly dull. 
I was wondering how I should get through the rest 
of the day. I was on the point of ringing for 
Olympe to come and talk to me. She can be enter- 
taining when she chooses. I am so glad you came 
in. What are you doing to-night? Nothing? 
Really ! Then do let us devise some amusement. I 
was going to Mrs. Sandon, but she has a cold, and 
has put me off. Will you dine here? I wonder 
whether I could get any one else at a few hours’ 
notice. Where would a telegram find Mr. Hart- 
ford?” 

“ I left him at the club an hour ago,” said Vent- 
nor. 

“The Bachelors? Bring me some of the forms 
you will see on that writing-table. I’ll ask the Nor- 
folk girl on chance. Where shall we go? The 
Gaiety? Yes, the Gaiety if we can get seats. I’ll 
telegraph at once. Ring the bell, please. It had bet- 
ter be a box, as I don’t know how many we may be.” 


60 


Time and the Woman 


The messages were despatched. Then Gerald 
and Mrs. Ruthven sat by the fire, and talked for 
an hour. 

Araby, meanwhile, having recovered her good 
humor, was sitting comfortably by her own hearth 
and discussing the world in general with Olympe. 
Olympe had opinions, and she aired them. She 
was cynical. All men and most women she thought 
were deceivers, and she said so in French and Eng- 
lish. She had a way of translating herself from the 
one to the other. She had had a love-affair in her 
early youth, and she knew what she was talking 
about. 

“ J’en ai assez. I have enough. I want no more. 
Never again — not me. No fear. Pas si bete. Not 
so stupid.” 

A knock made itself heard. Mrs. Ruthven desired 
Miss Araby’s presence in the drawing-room. 

Araby was received as if nothing had happened. 
This was another of those things which puzzled her. 
Mrs. Ruthven chose to ignore all that had gone be- 
fore. 

“ Life is too short,” she said to Araby one day, “ to 
make it worth while to keep up one's resentment. 
If you annoy me in any way, either apologize at the 
time or not at all. I never wish to be reminded of 
anything that is over. If I want to be angry with 
you I shall soon find a fresh opportunity, so let the 
old score slide.” 


Time and the Woman 


61 


Upon her daughter’s appearance Mrs. Ruthven 
said something playful about Araby’s afternoon 
sleep. Araby looked into the fire and smiled to her- 
self. A dancing flame caught the gold in her hair, 
and Gerald found himself noting it. 

“ Go and sing,” said Mrs. Ruthven suddenly. She 
pointed to the piano. 

Araby, accustomed to obeying, rose. Gerald 
opened the instrument for her. 

“ What shall I sing?” 

“Home, sweet Home” said Mrs. Ruthven. “ I 
think that is sufficiently — inappropriate.” 

Ventnor looked round. Mrs. Ruthven was laugh- 
ing softly at her own thoughts. Araby began to 
sing. Her voice was sweet, and though it was quite 
untrained, she used it with a very fair method. 
Gerald found himself thinking of an abstract home. 
It held — not Lady Ventnor. 

In the firelight of the room (Araby’s music needed 
no candles, and the lamps had not yet been brought 
in) he looked at the straight and slender form at 
the piano, the gentle hands, the parted lips, and the 
earnest face — it was childish and pathetic — and the 
hair of flame. 

The girl was very beautiful, he thought, and he 
had only just discovered it. 

“ Now sing Molly Bawn” 

But Araby was thinking of Eccram, of the dull 


62 


Time and the Woman 


happy days, of the two old aunts who loved her. 
Something new in Gerald’s manner unnerved her. 

“ Not now,” she said, a little huskily, and with 
glistening eyes. “ I will play something instead.” 

Soon after this a couple of telegrams arrived sim- 
ultaneously, and were brought to Mrs. Ruthven. 
They contained respectively the acceptances of her 
invitations to Hartford and Miss Norfolk. 

“ What shall we do if we can’t get places? ” said 
Mrs. Ruthven. “ I ought to have had an answer 
from the theatre by this time.” 

Ten minutes later a third yellow envelope was 
brought to her. 

“ There isn’t a box,” she said, when she had torn it 
Open and read the contents. “ I can have four stalls 
together, and one in another row.” 

She thought for a few moments. 

“ I am afraid you will have to amuse yourself at 
home, Araby.” 

Gerald’s eyeglass sent a gleam of reflected firelight 
across the wall as the wearer of it turned in the 
direction of the speaker. 

“ May I go with Olympe to the St. James’s 
Hall?” said Araby, after a pause. 

She mentioned a singer she wished to hear. She 
was not disappointed in reality though she was sure 
that Gerald thought her so, and it was with an effort 
that she made her voice sound unstrained. Mrs. 


Time and the Woman 


63 


Ruthven was writing her telegram engaging the 
four places. 

“But there are five stalls,” said Ventnor, “and 
we are five.” 

“ And one of you would have to sit out by him- 
self,” said Mrs. Ruthven, shaking her head. “ No, 
that sort of arrangement is most uncomfortable. 
Araby must be content not to come. It can’t be 
helped.” 

She rang as she spoke, and gave the message to the 
servant as soon as he appeared, directing that it 
should be despatched forthwith. 

“ Still it is rather rough on Miss Ruthven,” said 
Gerald, in a tone of half-serious and half-playful re- 
monstrance. 

Araby wished that he would understand that she 
did not mind. 

“ Yes, upon my word it is too bad,” he said, less 
playfully, as if he realized more fully the leaving out 
of Araby from the plan of the evening’s amusement. 
He rose to his feet. “ Let me stop him. Look here, 
let us have that fifth stall. I’ll sit in it.” 

“You’ll do nothing of the sort, Mr. Ventnor. 
The telegram is gone. Araby doesn’t care for a 
burlesque; she doesn’t understand it. And anyway 
she is young enough to be able to do without diver- 
sion for one night.” 

Gerald sat down again unconvinced. Araby 


64 


Time and the Woman 


looked at her mother and feared a storm. Mrs. 
Ruthven appeared unruffled, but Araby thought she 
was angry. 

“And I think I would almost rather go to the 
concert,” Araby said. She glanced at Gerald then, 
hoping to silence him. 

Mrs. Ruthven, though for no particular reason, 
unless indeed she was annoyed by Ventnor’s at- 
titude, had it on her tongue to refuse. She thought 
better of it, however, and gave a conditional con- 
sent. 

“ If,” she said, “ I don’t change my mind, and 
if Olympe can be got to look sufficiently respect- 
able — Olympe paints her face, and tires her head, 
and is altogether rather like Jezebel — you can go.” 

Then Gerald went home to dress. 



Ventnor led the way where the cab was standing 




Time and the Woman 


65 


CHAPTER VI. 

Whatever may have been the impression which 
Araby made upon Gerald Ventnor that afternoon, 
it was Mrs. Ruthven who absorbed his attention at 
dinner. Her attraction appealed always to the 
senses, and her brilliance eclipsed the less assertive 
charms of Araby and Miss Norfolk. 

Miss Norfolk, it is true, had no very strong 
claim to good looks. She had the prettiness of a 
thousand London girls who keep their eyes open, 
and are on the alert to note the smallest change of 
fashion. She had a reputation for a certain smart- 
ness of dress, and she did her level best to maintain 
it. Her friends would have been astonished to 
know upon how limited an allowance she produced 
such good effects. Indeed, it would have opened a 
good many eyes, had the figures that represented 
the entire income that was made to meet the ex- 
penses of the house in Sloane Street been known. 
Mrs. Norfolk knew that a good address, with six 
marriageable girls of moderate charms but suf- 
ficient wits, was a not unprofitable speculation. 
They had the start of living in a good neighbor- 


66 


Time and the Woman 


hood, and she gave them such advantages as lay in 
her managing power, and let them do the rest for 
themselves. Miss Norfolk and her five sisters 
spent then a certain number of hours each week in 
the workroom at the top of the house, in company 
with a maid, a couple of large pairs of scissors, and 
a sewing machine. They were clever girls, and 
they made the most of an abundant stock of ideas, 
and the least possible amount of such materials as 
were expensive. The result of their diligence, their 
observation, and what the maid called their con- 
trivance, was that Mrs. Norfolk’s girls were better 
turned out than two-thirds of those of her friends, 
whose incomes doubled or trebled her own. 

Miss Norfolk looked at Mrs. Ruthven, and 
thought of herself, that for to-night at least she was 
somewhat unfairly handicapped. 

“ I wonder whether I am asked here for foil,” 
she thought, suddenly pausing in eating her soup. 
“ Mrs. Ruthven is too good-looking to give one a 
chance. She is like electric light ; and I feel like the 
flame of a candle.” 

Miss Norfolk, however, went on to reflect, that 
but for Mrs. Ruthven she would be at that moment 
dining at home on roast mutton and rice-pudding, 
and with a dull evening before her of helping a 
sister trim a hat. So she ate her soup like a good 
girl, and was thankful for these and other mercies. 


Time and the Woman 


67 


Araby did not mind being eclipsed. But there 
was something that she did mind, and for the first 
time. Miss Norfolk found Hartford rather silent. 
She saw that he could not keep his eyes from the 
end of the table. 

“ He shall though,” she said to herself, and in 
twenty minutes, and possibly with the unconscious 
aid of Mrs. Ruthven’s excellent champagne, which 
he was drinking pretty freely, she had the satisfac- 
tion of securing his attention. 

“All the same,” she told him, “you are awfully 
dull — dull, but dull ! dull to break everything ! ” 

“ I know/’ he said, “ I am shocking bad company 
to-night. It is very good of you to put up with 
me at all.” 

“ Well, you see, I have to put up with you,” said 
Miss Norfolk, boldly; “there is no one else. 
Those two manage to amuse themselves pretty 
well, don’t they? I wonder what they are talking 
about? Wait a minute, I must say something to 
Miss Ruthven. You won’t go off into a brown 
study in the meantime, will you? Mr. Hartford 
and I are admiring the flowers, Miss Ruthven. I 
am sure you settled them, didn’t you ? I thought so. 
I wish I had your happy knack. I always see to ours 
at home, but I never can get the table to look half 
as nice as this. It is quite lovely — quite lovely — too 
lovely ! ” 


68 


Time and the Woman 


Araby saw that Miss Norfolk was not thinking 
of what she was saying, so she did not respond 
much, and Miss Norfolk having murmured “ quite 
too lovely ” three or four times under her breath 
with palpable mechanicalness returned to the con- 
quest of Hartford. 

Dinner proceeded smoothly, and with that ab- 
sence of delays that means good service, which in 
turn implies good wages. Mrs. Ruthven, while 
she exacted the utmost attention to her orders, 
managed always to keep on good terms with her 
servants, and the result was comfort and freedom 
from small annoyances. The butler and a smart 
maid moved with noiseless tread and mutual silent 
understanding. The menu itself was short and un- 
elaborate, but each dish was perfect of its kind. 

Araby, sitting between the girl of the end of the 
century and Gerald Ventnor, had time to think a 
good deal. 

Mrs. Ruthven’s laugh sounded often. Her bore- 
dom of the earlier part of the day was gone, and 
her spirits had risen in proportion. She seemed not 
ill-disposed towards her daughter, to whom she ad- 
dressed an occasional remark. Perhaps she saw 
that her possession of Gerald was to-night more 
complete than it had been heretofore, and she could 
afford the optimism which extended its goodwill 
even to Araby. 


Time and the Woman 


69 


Dinner approached its end. Araby looked at the 
clock ; she made her excuses and rose. Gerald, with 
a sudden misgiving, realized how he had neglected 
one of his neighbors for the other. Araby’s smile 
of thanks was a little wistful as he held the door 
open for her. It lingered in his memory after- 
wards. 

Miss Norfolk carried on her plan of campaign. 
She was very wide awake, and she began to praise 
her hostess. Hartford was transparent to her as 
glass. 

It was with some difficulty that Mrs. Ruthven 
caught her eye. Miss Norfolk’s face bore the 
nearest approach to a blush of which it was capable, 
when she found Mrs. Ruthven looking at her in 
silent but eloquent amusement, and waiting. 

“ We mustn’t delay any longer,” Mrs. Ruthven 
said, smiling, “ and we must have our coffee at 
once and go. Ring for it, Mr. Ventnor.” 

Ten minutes later a brougham and a hansom 
left Primate Street. 

In the clear and frosty night the buildings cut 
themselves sharply against the sky. There were 
many stars. Gerald, in the hansom with Hartford, 
felt a sudden wish for the country, and a momen- 
tary revolt against London. With it, and with or 
without reason, came a thought of Araby. How he 
had neglected her. He liked to think that she 
was going to hear beautiful music. 


70 


Time and the Woman 


Then his cigar, and the glamor of the starlit sky 
that had made him wish for the country, caused 
London to absorb him once more. It was an en- 
chanted city under such a sky. He saw tiny points 
of frost sparkling on the ground under a lamp. 
Shadows were vague and mysterious. Lights on 
cabs and carriages looked in the distance like large 
fireflies. Trafalgar Square was powdered with a 
fine snow that had fallen at sundown, and that lay 
softly on the lions and the steps. He was sure 
that the trees in the parks must be white with it 
and rime. Oh, enchanted city! Were the buildings 
of silver as they looked on such a night? He 
wished that he could be on the top of St. Paul’s, that 
he might look down upon the whitened roofs and 
streets, upon the moonlit walls and churches and 
chimneys, and river and bridges and wharves. He 
said “Beautiful! Wonderful!” below his breath. 
They were the first words he had spoken since he 
left Primate Street. 

Hartford assented. He was thinking perhaps of 
Mrs. Ruthven. The two men had been smoking in 
silence. 

The hansom turned into the Strand. This the 
subtle beauty of the night could not enchant. It 
must remain ugly, but not without interest. It was 
thronged as ever with people and vehicles. It gave 
forth its roar of life and motion. Here and there 


Time and the Woman 


71 


Ihe theatres illuminated a bit of the road. From 
the bowls of fire on Terry’s the flames licked the 
sky. 

The cab drew up a few moments later. Ventnor 
and Hartford jumped out, and waited for the ar- 
rival of the brougham containing Mrs. Ruthven and 
Miss Norfolk. 

The four stalls turned out to be well placed. 
tV entnor looked about, and wondered which was the 
seat in another row which he associated with the 
absence of Araby. He felt somehow as if she 
must be sitting there all by herself, and again he 
thought of how at dinner he had neglected her. 
His thoughts ran back too to another night when 
she had been left out of part of the plan of the 
evening’s amusement. He looked at Mrs. Ruthven. 
She met his eyes by chance and smiled, and he 
ceased to think of Araby. 

Then the curtain rose to a swinging chorus, 
and he gave himself up to the enjoyment of a thing 
that needed no mental exertion of thought. Pretty 
faces, shapely limbs, and gorgeous and beautiful 
colors chained his eyes. Light melodies filled his 
ears. The jokes were not all funny, but mirth is 
as infectious as a cold. He laughed quietly, often 
at nothing. The play was like champagne ; it 
sparkled, and each sparkle was a tiny bubble dancing 
to the surface, and the bubble was only a speck of 


72 


Time and the Woman 


empty air. But like champagne, it intoxicated. 
The players were a pack of children romping 
through a game. They seemed all full of the de- 
light of their life. Something that was irrespon- 
sible, as the flight of a butterfly on a midsummer’s 
day, pervaded the atmosphere of that region of 
light and sound and movement and color on the 
other side of the footlights. Wonderful and daring 
combinations of tints gave a dazzling effect to the 
swaying skirts of the dancing girls. Their arms 
waved with exquisite precision as their bodies un- 
dulated in the tangle of the dance. Their eyes glis- 
tened, and they smiled, and their teeth gleamed 
through their red lips. Here and there amongst the 
audience a foot tapped in time to the exuberant 
measures of an air that was not to be resisted. Rib- 
bons white, and black, and blue, and scarlet, and 
green, floated out from the dresses of the dancers, 
and followed with zig-zag or curved flutterings the 
movements of their bodies. The house was full — 
even Araby’s stall had been taken. 

Gerald, though he did not know which that 
fifth stall was, saw presently that not one was 
vacant, and deduced from the fact this conclusion. 
Once more he thought of Araby, and his conscience 
pricked him. A girl in the chorus had red hair that 
reminded him vaguely of hers. Then he thought of 
her soft eyes, and then — he was listening to a voice 


Time and the Woman 


73 


that never failed to please him, and he forgot her. 
The words of the song, which were in kind a eulogy 
of fickleness, had a perverse charm of their own; 
and the air, written to display to their greatest ad- 
vantage the deep and the high notes of the singer, 
was full of subtle contrasts. There was midway 
through each verse the sudden surprise of a change 
of key. And from thinking of Araby’s soft eyes 
he fell to noting the dancing eyes of the singer, and 
the play of expression on the laughing face. He 
sought to define its charm. An encore was de- 
manded and conceded. The chorus romped in. 
Some sort of a climax was attained, and the cur- 
tain fell on the end of an act. 

Gerald and Mrs. Ruthven began to talk. Miss 
Norfolk chattered to Hartford, and he listened 
more or less. People moved about and exchanged 
greetings and remarks with their acquaintance. A 
man in the stalls talked to a girl in one of the 
boxes on the lower tier. A woman nodded and 
smiled to another across the house. There was 
a steady hum .of talk. A girl’s laugh sounded 
softly. A word or two of conversation might 
now and then be heard, detached as it were 
from the general buzz. There was that appear- 
ance of the meeting and the mutual recognition 
of members of a set that denotes the successful 
theatre. Miss Norfolk bowing now and then to 


74 


Time and the Woman 


friends was happy in the knowledge that she was 
generally to be seen somewhere. Any one, to be 
sure, can go to a theatre, but Miss Norfolk knew 
that since sufficient smart doors were open to her 
it was just as well to be in evidence even where no 
special cachet secured admittance. Her views were 
summed up briefly in the words, II faut se montrer, 
which may have been vulgar, but life is vulgar, and 
Miss Norfolk did not aspire to fine feelings. 

Hartford looked across the girl of the end of the 
age at Mrs. Ruthven. Gerald, noting the direction 
of his eyes, felt a certain satisfaction in the fact of 
the lady’s attitude towards himself. He was more 
interested in her to-night than heretofore. Possibly 
Hartford’s infatuation may have influenced him. 
That which another covets takes sometimes an at- 
traction for oneself. 

Mrs. Ruthven surprised Hartford’s eyes on her 
own. It was then that a sudden idea occurred to 
her, and she decided that it was time for Ventnor 
to change places with him. 

“ Go and talk to Miss Norfolk,” she whispered to 
Gerald ; “ I dare say she will teach you a good deal 
that you don’t know.” She leant over towards 
Hartford. “ Mr. Hartford, come and sit by me. 

I have scarcely seen anything of you all this even- 

• „ >> 
mg. 

Hartford rose with an alacrity that was scarcely 
flattering to the girl of the end of the century. 


Time and the Woman 


75 


“ You haven’t been particularly kind to me to- 
night,” he said, as he took the place Ventnor had 
vacated. 

Mrs. Ruthven looked puzzled and innocent. 

“ I gave you the only girl,” she said. “ I thought 
of course you would rather talk to her than to an 
old married woman like myself.” 

“ That’s nonsense,” said Hartford hotly, “ you 
know that.” 

“ Are you going to be cross and horrible ? ” said 
Mrs. Ruthven, “ because if so I shan’t like you.” 

“ You don’t like me.” 

“ Yes, I do. You interest me — very much, when 
you are not disagreeable.” 

Hartford did not relax. He looked gloomily at 
the musicians assembling. 

“ Mr. Hartford.” 

“ Yes, Mrs. Ruthven.” 

“ Look here. No, turn round. Look me in the 
face. Like that. Now, why are you angry? ” 

“ I am not angry.” 

“ Yes, you are. Well, I am going to be very 
humble. If I have offended you I — I am sorry. 
I don’t like to see you looking unhappy. Yes, it 
does matter, of course it matters. I am ready to 
make amends if you will tell me how. There, you 
look much nicer when you smile.” 

The musicians were in their places. There was 


76 


Time and the Woman 


a confused noise of tuning. A ’cello complained 
deeply. A violin gave forth a sound that was like 
a dog yawning. An oboe wailed. The conductor 
made his appearance and took his seat. 

“ London is ruining you,” she said presently. 
“ It is the very worst place for you in the world. 
Why haven’t you a profession?” 

“ Because I am lazy, and I have enough to live 
on without.” 

“ You are an only son? ” 

The conductor tapped the music-stand with his 
baton. There was silence amongst the wantoning 
instruments, and the overture to the second act be- 
gan. 

A few tactful inquiries elicited some further in- 
formation of a character interesting to Mrs. Ruth- 
ven with regard to the possibility of realizing the 
sudden idea which had occurred to her. 

“ I know you,” she said gravely ; “ oh, I have 
seen heaps of men like you in India. You drift. 
You make a profession of drifting. Do you know; 
that you are very foolish ? ” 

“ I know that I am not very happy.” 

The violins in sweeping waves of sound helped 
perhaps to unsteady a head that was not at the best 
very strong. 

Gerald meanwhile talked lightly to Miss Norfolk. 
Presently the lights were lowered and the curtain 
rose. 


Time and the Woman 


77 


What matter that the plot had gone to pieces, 
that the disguises were somewhat bewildering, and 
without motive? What did the story matter while 
there was still to be heard the voice that had sung 
perversely to Fickleness, and to be seen the feet 
that had translated music to movement? These 
things never failed to put Gerald on good terms with 
the world and himself. Give us Ibsen, he said, and 
plays that make us think, but give us also plays that 
don’t ; oh, above all plays that don’t ! Give us Mil- 
ton, but give us Austin Dobson; give us Raphael 
and Titian, and give us Harry Furniss! Make us 
uncomfortable, awe us, impress us, but let us also 
laugh — especially laugh ! 

Watteau, out of the heaviness of his heart and 
the unhappiness of his thirty-seven years, under- 
stood, and left us his fetes galantes. He knew that 
life was full enough of depression and disease and 
death, and so he presented to us a life that knew 
not these things, but that was made up of love, and 
sunshine, and color, and laughter, and beauty. Poor 
Watteau — yet happy Watteau to have understood 
so well ! 

Now the stage was clear, and there came on a 
dancer lighter and more supple than the rest. To 
see her was to know where the performance of the 
lesser dancers had fallen short of perfectness. The 
restraint and control of her movements were admi- 


78 


Time and the Woman 


rable. The dazzling ray of white light that was di- 
rected upon her threw her swaying shadow darkly 
on to the boards. The laws of balance and gravita- 
tion seemed suspended for her. To her feet, with 
the arched insteps, the intricacies of the plan of the 
dance offered no apparent difficulties. The marvel- 
ous ease with which she executed it was perhaps its 
greatest charm. When she raised her foot her skirts 
swung upwards after it, and looked like the sea 
foam that curls on the crest of a conventional wave 
in an old print, and then swung back to swing out 
afresh in some new direction. She glided here and 
there noiselessly, she turned as smoothly as smoke 
that wreathes in circles. The dance was full of 
small conceits, as when with her handkerchief she 
flicked lightly her pointed shoe, which fell back as if 
in answer, like some mouse peeping forth, detected 
and scared away; or when she swept softly round 
the stage, giving with her arm a curved motion as 
of reaping. And after that she seemed to glean; 
and then, in the last movement of the gavotte, when 
the violins, pizzicato, gave out sharp separate notes, 
it seemed, so exactly did her steps touch each one, 
as if she might have been dancing upon the strings 
themselves. 

The peal of applause that greeted the end of the 
dance resulted in its repetition. Then the chorus 
romped in once more, like the letting loose of chil- 


Time and the Woman 


79 


dren from school, which in turn is like the rush of 
waters from the gap of a broken dam. Gerald saw 
once more the red-haired girl who reminded him 
of Araby, and so he thought of Araby and forgot 
what was before him. He had only a vague con- 
sciousness of the darkening stage, the forms group- 
ing themselves upon the rocks, the strange effect of 
the opaline lights that presently relieved the gloom. 
He was tracing Araby in imagination to her con- 
cert. He wondered whether she was enjoying it, 
whether Olympe had had any difficulty in getting 
seats, whether she would succeed at once in getting 
a cab. 

He looked at his watch. He did not like the 
thought of Araby waiting, perhaps, in Piccadilly, 
during the delay that was inevitable. He hesitated, 
and looked at his watch again undecidedly. Then 
he professed to see a friend amongst the audience, 
and with the whispered assurance of his speedy re- 
turn, he quietly left his stall. 

He got his coat and hat from the attendant, and 
hurried out of the theatre. He was lucky enough to 
get a cab at once, and at the promise of an aug- 
mented fare the driver urged his horse to a credit- 
able pace. He paid the man at St. James’s Hall, and 
retained him. As he entered the building people 
began to leave it. He was in the nick of time. 

He scanned the stream of faces that flowed to- 


80 


Time and the Woman 


wards him. It swept past and round him like water 
washing a rock in its course. But the face he 
sought was not there. When he heard a woman 
say that the song “where it come in about our 
aingel Byby Lil ” had nearly moved her to tears, he 
understood that it was not amongst these people that 
he must look for Araby. He said “ Vox populi ” 
under his breath, and smiled to himself. 

But at the moment of making the discovery, a 
somewhat large form, at which he had been looking 
abstractedly as it advanced towards him, became 
suddenly detached as it were from the others, and 
familiar to him, and he recognized the shrewd 
and good-tmpered face of Mrs. Ruthven’s maid. 
Araby was walking beside her, and as her eyes fell 
upon him she hurried forward with a little gesture 
of pleased surprise. 

“ Oh,” she said, when she reached him, “ where 
do you think we have been ? ” 

“ I think I can guess.” 

“ We went there by mistake,” she said, laughing; 
“ we didn’t know there were two halls here, and we 
took our tickets and went in, and there was such a 
ridiculous plantation-song being sung, and Olympe 
was so much amused, and she had been dreading the 
classical music so much, — hadn’t you, Olympe? — 
that after all we did not move. It was all very 
funny, but oh, my beautiful concert. Is that where 


Time and the Woman 


81 


we ought to have gone, up there? I suppose those 
are the people beginning to come out from it ? ” 

He was looking at her, and listening to her with 
some amusement. She was speaking rapidly, and 
in a tone that was partly aggrieved and partly play- 
ful. 

It is significant that so trifling a thing as the 
fact of Gerald’s overcoat being open, which thus 
enabled Araby to see, without at the time being 
conscious of it, some violets he was wearing, was 
indirectly active in bringing about that which al- 
tered perhaps the course of her life. More dire 
events have sprung from as trifling causes. 

“ But how do you come to be here ? ” she asked, 
unconscious that she had seen that whence in- 
directly was to come so grave a chain of untoward 
circumstances. 

“ I came to see that you got a cab without diffi- 
culty.” 

“ Where is my mother ? ” 

“ At the theatre.” 

“Did she send you?” 

Gerald shook his head. 

“ Does she know you have come here ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Oh,” said Araby with dismay, “ she will be 
annoyed.” 

“ I have a hansom waiting outside,” said Gerald, 
smiling. 


82 


Time and the Woman 


“ Won’t the play be over? Shall you be back 
in time? Oh, I wish you hadn’t come.” 

Olympe stood back watching and in silence. 
Ventnor led the way along the crowded pavement 
to where his cab was standing. He gave Araby his 
hand and helped her into the hansom. The maid 
followed. Araby leant forward. 

“ Do go back at once,” she said hurriedly, “ do go 
straight back — straight, do you hear? and — and, 
Mr. Ventnor, don’t say where you have been.” 

He raised his hat and was moving away. Some 
one was calling to him. 

“ Sir.” 

The driver drew his attention to Araby, who 
beckoned to him. She put out her hand. 

“ It was good of you to come. It was awfully 
good of you.” 

A minute later Ventnor was being whirled back 
along the Strand. 

“ I wonder,” he said to himself, as he hurried 
back to his place in time to hear the final chorus 
and see the curtain fall, “ I wonder — a great many 
things.” 


Time and the Woman 


83 


CHAPTER VII, 

A daily penance to Araby was the morning walk 
with her mother. One of the rules, by strict con- 
formance to which Mrs. Ruthven owed something 
of her health and her youth, was that of a regular 
and methodical regard of exercise. Araby herself 
cared as much for walking as most girls who have 
been brought up in the country and the open air. 
She had been accustomed in the Eccram days to long 
rambles through the lanes or in the woods — alone 
as often as not, or sometimes with such companions 
as chance or the neighborhood afforded her. 

“ Oh, for such a walk now ! — to start running 
down the Eccram drive, and to steady to a more dig- 
nified pace as she neared the lodge, to turn out then 
on to the broad highway, and take an eastward or a 
westward direction — what matter which when each 
was beautiful? — to crack with her stick the ice on 
the little frozen pools at the wayside, and then to 
stride briskly along the iron roads that were over- 
hung by gaunt and frost-rimed elms, and to breathe 
in the still sharp air, and to meet no one ! 

But to walk in London, and with her mother. 


84 


Time and the Woman 


that was different. The parks were after all a poor 
imitation of the country; and Mrs. Ruthven made 
this daily hour and a half of exercise the occasion 
of lectures that were curiously foreign to the char- 
acter as Araby read it of the giver of them. And 
when Mrs. Ruthven was not admonishing, she was 
teasing her purely and simply and with twinkling 
eyes. Araby scarcely knew which she dreaded 
most — the lectures, in the sincerity of which, with 
her mother’s example before her, she could not be- 
lieve, or the baiting which, if it was premeditated and 
its cruelty realized, must sooner or later end in her 
hatred of her tormentor. 

It was a relief to her that she was at least allowed 
to begin the day in peace. Mrs. Ruthven, since she 
had entered on her occupation of the house in Pri- 
mate Street, breakfasted in her room, and till nearly 
eleven Araby had her time to herself. In these 
frosty winter mornings, with a magnificent disre- 
gard of her complexion, she drew her chair round 
to that side of the table that was nearest to the fire, 
and, with the newspaper propped up against the urn, 
she read comfortably as she ate abstractedly, and 
allowed first one half of her face and then the other 
to be burned by the dancing blaze. The knowledge 
that her mother would have interfered with this 
method of enjoying her lonely breakfast detracted 
nothing from the pleasure of its freedom. She was 


Time and the Woman 


85 


learning at this period of her life to look only to her- 
self for sympathetic companionship. She was not 
of the type of girl who finds solace in confiding to 
a diary her thoughts or her impressions, and since 
leaving Eccram she had no intimate acquaintance at 
hand to whom she could go for counsel. She was 
loyal to the mother at whose contrivance she was 
now so little happy, and in her letters to the old 
aunts she had never written a word that would 
serve to enlighten them as to the facts of the case. 
From Mrs. Ruthven herself they gathered nothing 
except that which she wished them to know; and 
if she spoke of them habitually as “ those two old 
things at Eccram, ” or “ those dreadful old aunts 
of your father, Araby,” she was careful to write to 
them the very admirable sentiments which she knew 
so well how to word. 

“ Their goggle eyes used to be big enough when 
I knew them,” she said to herself, “ and I am rather 
good at throwing dust.” 

On the morning succeeding Mrs. Ruthven’s im- 
promptu party Araby descended as usual to the 
snug brown dining-room. There had been more 
frost in the night, and the fire burned brightly, and 
threw a glow of heat from the red-tiled hearth. 
Araby stood before it, and held out her hands to 
the blaze. The butler was moving around the table. 
The tray for Mrs. Ruthven’s breakfast stood on the 


86 


Time and the Woman 


sideboard, and Olympe came in presently, and after 
looking about, and asking him for such things as she 
required for her mistress, she took it in her plump 
hands and disappeared. 

The man removed a cover and withdrew. Araby 
did not stir at once. She watched the flames, and 
the curling smoke, and a tile on to which a burning 
coal had fallen, and which reflected its heart of fire ; 
then some flaky white dust which trembled on a bar 
of the grate; after that it was the blue of a little 
flame that caught her attention, and that reminded 
her of the blue of some one's eyes, and then she 
smiled, and then she sighed. 

She was still standing before the fire when Olympe 
returned for the salt, which had been forgotten. 
Araby turned absently and looked at her. 

Olympe laid her hand upon her own panting 
bosom and said, 

“All those stairs. I mount again. So stupid. 
Whatta-bore ! ” and whisked herself and a salt-cellar 
out of the room. 

Araby’s thoughts followed her up the white stairs, 
and culminated at the side of the dainty bed, in a 
recollection of the inevitable walk and its attendant 
evils. Then quite suddenly, and with a surprise that 
led to self-questioning, Araby realized that she had 
within herself a knowledge that would render, for 
that day at least, her mother’s shafts powerless to 


Time and the Woman 


87 


wound her. She sat down to her breakfast, but she 
could not eat. She was thinking of every word that 
Gerald Ventnor had ever said to her. They did 
not amount to very many, even when they were all 
gathered together. They would have covered little 
paper, and most of them were commonplace enough, 
but — Araby thought of them all. She remembered, 
too, every time that she had seen him. But it seemed 
to her that it was yesterday that for the first time she 
had seen him as he really was. She rose and looked 
at her reflection in the little square of beveled glass 
that was let into the wood-work over the mantel- 
piece. She stood in front of it for some moments, 
noting many things, and wondering, and then she re- 
turned to the table. Her lips were smiling. Her 
eyes were grave as they fell upon the flowers that 
Miss Norfolk had mechanically admired at dinner, 
for the sight of them brought back a recollection of 
a three-quarter view of Gerald’s head, as he had sat 
with his face turned almost the whole time to Mrs. 
Ruthven. Then Araby was unhappy for a space, 
and then she was wildly happy. Oh, the beauti- 
ful night! she thought of the drive home with 
Olympe along Piccadilly after that exquisite mo- 
ment when the calling back of Gerald to thank him 
had seemed to bring him so near to her. She had 
carried home with her the recollection of his smile. 
The Green Park was a white park that night, the 


88 


Time and the Woman 


trees were saved from gauntness by a rich covering 
of fine snow, and snow lay in a broad expanse on 
the grass, so that even the further distances were not 
quite dark. Something gleamed on the path that 
skirts the park railings. A boy was carrying a pair 
of skates, and the blades caught the lights of a pass- 
ing carriage. Then Araby wished to skate. Some- 
where, she thought, there must be sheets of ice, where 
the stars of the winter night were deeply reflected, 
and where at the edges overhung by trees mysterious 
shadows would be thrown. Out in the open the 
moon would see her face, perhaps blurred in the icy 
mirror. Oh, on such a frozen lake to skate away to 
the end of time, alone with one’s thoughts — or with 
one other! 

So Araby made a meagre breakfast. Her happi- 
ness, that had its base on very slender foundations, 
robbed her of all wish to eat. She rose from the 
table half a dozen times, to go to the window, 
to look into the fire, to — but her actions did not 
seem to have any definite motives. When she saw 
herself in the glass she smiled. 

All this time Araby sought no name for the new 
element that had come into her life. It was enough 
for her that — for whatever reason — she was ex- 
periencing a joy which had never been hers before. 
She did not look on into the future with any won- 
der. She was not of a type that maps out plans or 


Time and the Woman 


89 


hopes in advance. All that she realized was, that 
with Gerald for her friend the difficulties of her life 
would dwindle. 

She had been brought up upon old-fashioned 
principles, upon principles indeed that now, for- 
tunately or the reverse, according to your view of 
the old order in contrast with the new, are almost 
obsolete. She had read little of love, and she had 
heard still less. Novels in the Eccram days had been 
accounted dangerous, until they had been carefully 
considered by that one of the aunts under whose su- 
pervision her reading had been done, and poor Araby 
was unwittingly the symbol of the terrible young 
person before whom the novel-writer is only now 
by slow degrees ceasing to bow down. The Miss 
Woottons had allowed her a free access only to 
that form of literature which proclaims its purity in 
its very binding. Cloth gilt is, I believe, the tech- 
nical term for the abomination which covers the 
class of book held harmless. It was thus an inverte- 
brate sort of fiction which had been permitted to 
adorn her book-shelves in those days. The classics, 
if she had read them at all, came before her in a 
mutilated form. The result of such censorship 
was — Araby. She had, then, to make all discoveries 
for herself, and that which to the average modern 
girl would have been familiar at the second hand of 
fiction, was to her an untraveled country. She wasl 


90 


Time and the Woman 


vaguely conscious of the handicap to which her mind 
had been subjected by the well-meaning rigor of the 
aunts. 

The morning was passing quickly. Araby, having 
taken no heed of time, was sitting at the piano in the 
drawing-room, translating, though she was scarcely 
aware of it, something of her feelings to the music 
that she was playing, when her wandering eyes 
chanced to fall upon the clock. Almost simulta- 
neously three things occurred — she started to her 
feet noting the hour, Olympe came to the room bear- 
ing a message from Mrs. Ruthven, announcing that 
she was ready for her walk, and the front door-bell 
was rung. Araby hurried upstairs, and presently re- 
turned booted, hatted, coated, and drawing on her 
gloves. She had heard her mother going down from 
her room, and now she heard her voice in the draw- 
ing-room, and the sound also of another voice. 
Then Araby waited for a few moments before going 
in, till the color in her face should subside somewhat. 
Her heart was beating loudly. When she could de- 
lay no longer she opened the door. 

She saw Gerald then as she had never seen him 
before. He was standing by the fire in a rough 
brown suit, and stockings knitted of a coarse wool. 
He looked altogether a bigger and broader man 
than she had supposed him. Hitherto she had 
known him only as a man of London — one of that 


Time and the M oman 


91 


great class that lounges through a town life smartly. 
Now his masculinity seemed more insistent; a subtle 
air of the country hung about him, and to Araby, 
who had lived her life in the woods and the fields, 
its suggestion appealed strongly. Her shyness van- 
ished in a moment. In truth, she scarcely saw her 
mother just then. She thought of the sound of a 
gun, she thought inconsequently of dogs and horses, 
of rods and fishing-tackle, and of whatever else con- 
nects itself with an out-of-door life. 

Gerald shook hands with her, and repeated the 
object of his visit. His sister was making up a 
party to skate at Wimbledon, and he had come round 
to see whether Mrs. Ruthven and Araby would not 
be persuaded to join it. 

Araby’s face expressed the delight the proposal 
afforded her. 

“ Can you skate?” asked her mother. “You 
mustn’t come if it is to learn. A beginner wants a 
lot of help, and so on.” 

“ But I am not a beginner,” said Araby firmly, 
and conscious of her powers. 

Ten minutes later Mrs. Ruthven and her daughter 
were being fitted with skates, and half an hour saw 
them on their way to Wimbledon. In the train, 
Gerald, in his lightest mood, kept Araby included in 
the conversation. Mrs. Ruthven frowned a little 
sometimes, but Araby’s spirits were at a height at 


92 


Time and the Woman 


which they could be little affected by these signs of a 
gathering storm. 

The clear winter night had been followed by as 
clear a day. The air was sharp and still ; a pale sun- 
light gilded but scarcely warmed the crisp morning. 
Gerald noted Araby’s glowing cheeks. Her eyes 
were bright in anticipation of the exercise before 
her. 

Miss Ventnor’s party had gone down by an earlier 
train. Miss Ventnor herself waited on the edge of 
the ice for her brother and his friends. She had met 
Araby before, we remember, on the occasion of 
Araby’s series of visits with Mrs. Sandon. She 
greeted Mrs. Ruthven warmly, and Mrs. Ruthven 
thought she annexed her. What Mrs. Ruthven had 
said of herself was true, girls were always attracted 
to her, and Miss Ventnor pleased Gerald by saying 
that she hoped she might be allowed to call in 
Primate Street. 

Araby’s eyes traversed the great sheet of ice. A 
girl swung by tracing broad curves. 

“ Oh,” said Araby to herself, “ he shall see what 
I can do. Oh, I am glad I can skate.” 

A dozen men besieged the new arrivals. “ ’Ere 
you are, lady.” “ Put your skates on, miss?” 
“ Take a seat, sir.” 

Araby gave herself into the hands of the most 
persuasive. He discoursed volubly of frosts he re- 


Time and the Woman 


93 


membered, of figure-cutting as it should be done, of 
the merits comparatively of wooden and acme 
skates. 

“A very pretty pair yours are, miss, too — very 
fancy they are. Thank you, miss.” 

Araby was amused, and made appropriate an- 
swers, but he was not as deft with his fingers as he 
was quick with his tongue, and she was chafing to be 
on the ice. She had the trial to her patience of see- 
ing the others there before her. 

“ Oh, could you be a little bit quicker ? ” she said 
at last. 

The man seemed hurt. It was this way, lie ex- 
plained; she might have gone to one of the others 
who would have fastened her skates more quickly 
perhaps, and in ten minutes they would have come 
off, and then — well, there you are. He was “ thur- 
rer,” he was. If you do a thing at all you had better 
do it well or else leave it alone. A skate (he held 
one of Araby’s up for demonstration) wasn’t like the 
harness of a fire-escape horse, you couldn’t drop it 
on warm. 

Mrs. Ruthven meanwhile took a few steps tenta- 
tively, found that her sojourn in India had not 
robbed her of her power of skating, and then struck 
out freely and with the grace that characterized all 
her movements. Gerald gave her his hand. Araby 
looked on. Were they going to skate away to- 


94 


Time and the Woman 


gether? Gerald glanced along the row of chairs 
and his eyes fell on Araby. Perhaps her face ex- 
pressed her martyrdom. He said something to Mrs. 
Ruthven and skated up to the bank. The man was 
likening — or unlikening in his case, for he used a 
negative form of simile — the skate to many other 
things. Gerald grasped the situation, paid the man, 
dismissed him as incompetent, and adjusted Araby’s 
skates himself. The man continued his discourse 
the while. 

A few minutes more and Araby was on the ice. 
Gerald watched her as she shot away. She was as 
some mythical being with winged feet. Her hips 
showed a rounded line as she swept on in half 
circles, while the balance of her body was precise as 
that of the dancing girls of the previous night. Mrs. 
Ruthven looked at her daughter in surprise. 

“Who taught her to skate?” she said to 
herself. 

The sharp ring of the blades on the ice filled 
the air, and smote the ears of such as hurried from 
the station, while as yet the skaters were not in sight. 
The sound of the brooms was soft, and had a 
permanent place in the noises of the day, and a third 
sound was the musical whirr of the curling. 

Araby was intoxicated with the delights of the 
day, and the blood ran fast in her veins, and gave a 
tingling color to her face as she moved. She wore 


Time and the Woman 


95 


a rough black serge that allowed her limbs free play 
and that swung back with the speed of her going. 
Her slight figure was outlined against the ice or the 
white of the banks. 

“By Jove, she can skate !” said Gerald below 
his breath. 

Miss Ventnor was talking to Mrs. Ruthven, 
and under the impression that she was making her- 
self agreeable, she was loud in her praises of Araby. 
In answer to them Mrs. Ruthven said sweetly — 

“ It is so good of you to say so.” 

“ You must be awfully proud of her,” said 
Miss Ventnor. 

Gerald had joined Araby, and the two were 
skating together. 

“ And won’t you present her and bring her out 
this season?” persisted Miss Ventnor. 

Mrs. Ruthven changed the subject — carefully, 
however, for she did not wish Miss Ventnor to 
suppose that she was bored. Her humor was some- 
what uncertain at this moment. 

“ Oh,” said Araby to Gerald, “ how good of you 
to devise this pleasure for us. There is nothing 
better that you could have thought of. When I 
skate I want to skate for ever. Do you know Long- 
fellow’s Skeleton in Armor ? I read it so often and 
it enchants me, and half the enchantment of it lies 
in the lines that ” 


96 


Time and the Woman 


Gerald interrupted her to quote 

“ . . . And, with my skates fast bound, 

Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, 

That the poor whimpering hound 
Trembled to walk on.” 

“ I am glad you know/’ said Araby, radiantly, 
“ I wanted you to know. Can’t you see him, the 
Viking I mean, cutting along through the frozen 
air? Oh, he went fast — faster than we could go, 
and he wore great curled skates, I think, with an 
edge keen to grip the ice. And that ice ! It wasn’t 
half - frozen everywhere, you know. That was only 
in places. There were miles of it I think, square 
miles I mean, or perhaps it was measureless, and he 
could skate on and on, coming no nearer to the end 
of it. And it was clear and smooth as crystal, so that 
you could see down deeply into it, and there were fish 

frozen into it like ” 

“ Prawns in aspic,” suggested Gerald. 

“ Yes, like prawns in aspic,” said Araby, smil- 
ing, — “ though you have brought my Viking over 
many centuries, — and behind him he left the only 
marks the ice bore, and they were bold free lines or 
great sweeping curves when he went on the outside 
edge. Let us go on the outside edge now. Oh, don’t 
you like, — take care, there’s a big crack, — don’t you 
like skating better than anything else in the world ? ” 
Gerald laughed. 


Time and the Woman 


97 


“ Not better than anything else in the world/' 
he said. 

They swept round together to the right and to the 
left with the regularity of a pendulum. 

“ What better ? ” asked Araby. 

“ I don’t know — hunting. Listening to you.” 

“ That is the sort of thing you say to — other 
people.” She hesitated and colored. She had 
been going to instance her mother, but she sub- 
stituted the abstract for the concrete. 

They skated on in silence then for a few minutes. 
A shadow was on Araby’s face. Presently her brow 
cleared. Small things amused her on this happy day. 
A man’s fall moved her to laughter, and the sham- 
bling of a beginner — a lady with weak ankles who 
shuffled and slid, and walked by turns upon the 
wooden part of her skates, with an uncertainty of 
balance that resulted at times in her feet proceed- 
ing in advance of her body. The frenzied war- 
dance which preceded her inevitable tumble seemed 
irresistibly funny. 

Gerald looked at Araby as she laughed — how she 
laughed, how lightly and musically, and with what 
infection ! — and he laughed too. They laughed 
together, looking each at the other with twinkling 
eyes. 

Araby knew then that laughter, like tears, binds 
hearts together. She felt that Gerald and she kne\y 
one another better than heretofore. 


98 


Time and the Woman 


They separated presently, Miss Ventnor joining 
Araby, and Gerald Mrs. Ruthven. Miss Ventnor 
spoke of Mrs. Sandon, and Araby was warm in her 
praise. 

“ It was in Earl Street that you met my brother, 
wasn’t it?” said Miss Ventnor. 

“We were staying there before mother took a 
house,” said Araby. 

By lunch-time the two girls were fast friends. 
Miss Ventnor was an enthusiast, and took sudden 
fancies to people. The latest friend was always the 
only friend in the world. Miss Norfolk had at one 
time been one of these only friends. Maud Athol, 
Gertrude Woodford, and a score of others shared 
this distinction. 

“ And I always like Gerald’s friends,” said Miss 
Ventnor, making a sudden turn on her skates which 
resulted in a fall. “ Oh, my poor elbow, it will be 
blue for the Athols’ dance to-morrow.” She said 
this from a sitting posture on the ice, and continued 
as she regained her feet — “ And you are Gerald’s 
friend, aren’t you? you or Mrs. Ruthven, which is it? 
And so I am certain to like you. I hope, by the 
way,” she added, as she shook the white from her 
skirts, and as an after-thought, “ that you will like 
me.” 

“ That will be easy,” said Araby, frankly. 

A footman, treading on the ice gingerly, — and 


Time and the Woman 


99 


like Agag in that he went delicately, — approached 
Miss Ventnor to inform her that lunch was ready, 
and that the rest of her party had assembled. 

Miss Ventnor was greeted with a chorus of banter- 
ing reproach. One said one thing and one another, 
but the more part knew very well why they were 
come together. The meal passed merrily. The 
champagne sparkled in tumblers and the pale sun- 
light. Mrs. Ruthven enlarged her acquaintance that 
day by about a dozen people. Lord George Athol 
devoted himself to her, and whispered later to his 
wife, with the result that Lady George asked to be 
allowed to call, and begged Mrs. Ruthven to waive 
ceremony and bring her daughter to a small dance in 
Barn Street on the following night. 

“ But Araby isn’t out,” said Mrs. Ruthven. 

“ Oh, but such a small dance,” said Lady George. 

“You must, indeed,” said Miss Ventnor; “and 
won’t you dine with us first ? I know mamma would 
be delighted.” 

She knew nothing of the sort. Gerald added his 
entreaties to hers, but Mrs. Ruthven gave no definite 
answer. 

The ice became more crowded. Every train that 
came in sent a stream pouring down to the bank. 
The figure-skaters had some difficulty in keeping 
their chosen spaces free, and regarded with envy the 
clear stretch of the best ice which the club reserved 


100 


Time and the Woman 


for the use of its members. The scene was painted 
in bright colors against a white background. Here 
a bit of scarlet on a girl’s coat made a spot that 
glowed like an ember. The frosty winter had 
brought out warm browns and reds, and they moved 
hither and thither like autumn leaves blown by the 
wind. Later, when the sun set gorgeously, the very 
snow grew pink, and the ice had a sheen as of gold 
blended with crimson. A red mist hung in the 
direction of London. 

Araby thought of the moon that had turned 
London of the night before to a silver city, and 
that soon would rise. She wished that she could 
stay on far into the night, till every other skater — 
every other save one — should have gone home. 
Then, she thought, on the lonely stretch of ice 
they two would swing, she and that other, on 
magic blades that traced fantastic patterns — some- 
times apart, sometimes joining hands. There 
should be fairy music to such dancing as that ! What 
shadows would their swaying bodies cast upon ice — 
^ shadows that would be clean-cut in so bright a 
moonlight. How they would turn, and circle, and 
blend. . . . 

Gerald skated up to her. His face had a ruddiness 
that came in part from the exercise, in part from the 
russet sky. 

“ We are going presently,’’ he said. 


Time and the Woman 


101 


“ So soon ? ” said Araby. 

Gerald smiled. 

“ Not tired yet? ” he said. 

“ No,’' said Araby. “ I feel as if I should never 
be tired again.” 

She looked across to the blazing west as she 
spoke. Her eyes and her cheeks were glowing. 
Her hair caught the light, and flamed like the 
sunset. She looked an incarnation of fire. The 
.bought struck Gerald, and he looked at her in 
wonder. 

“ I believe,” he said, “ if you took off your hat 
and let down your hair, that it would scorch me. 
It would be like flames curling round your face. 
Your eyes are burning too like coals. Oh, you 
are splendid. I wish I could paint. I wish I could 
write poetry. I would paint you, I would write you, 
you fire girl ! ” 

Araby colored deeply. Gerald remembered him- 
self. 

“ I beg your pardon,” he said, gently. “ I 
scarcely know how I came to speak like that to 
you. I could not help it. You are angry with 
me ! ” 

“ I am not angry,” she answered low. “ I am 
only ” 

“ Only what ? ” in a voice as low. 

“ Glad,” said Araby. She turned her head a little. 


102 Time and the Woman 

He saw the oval of her cheek, and the color that 
was slowly leaving it. There were tears in her eyes 
when next he saw them. 

He was tempted to follow up his advantage. 
Instead, however, he brought matters back to the 
safety of the commonplace by asking her if she 
would not like some tea before going. He read 
her as a book, and her absolute inexperience was 
revealed to him. 

The cup steamed in the winter twilight. He 
watched her as she emptied it. Even while she 
drank she could not resist moving on her skates. 

The scattered party was long in assembling. 
Miss Ventnor had her skates taken off, and was 
sliding tentatively at the edge of the ice. Mrs. 
Ruthven was talking to Lady George, and she 
looked in the direction of Gerald and Araby. She 
saw them skate off once more together. 

“ Faster,” said Araby, “ faster. This is the end 
of it. Faster! The outside edge. . . . .” 

They swung along. 


Time and the W oman 


103 


CHAPTER VIII, 

Mrs. Ruthven went home that night in an 
uncertain mood. The day had been successful, but 
it had left her discontented. Her state of mind 
evinced itself in a hundred odd ways. She was 
silent and she talked by turns. She moved about 
her rooms restlessly, and she contemplated her 
daughter as she might have studied a picture or a 
statue, or anything else that is inanimate. Once 
she went over to her, and holding her by the 
shoulders, she looked deeply into her eyes. She 
kissed her forehead suddenly, and then let her go 
with a kind of push. 

Araby was startled and shrank back. The 
incident had the element of the unfamiliar, and 
from the unfamiliar it was in Araby’s nature to 
retreat. She regarded her mother with a ming- 
ling of dread and fascination. 

“ Who taught you to skate ? ” Mrs. Ruthven said. 
(t Who taught you to skate so well ? ” 

“ I have skated all my life,” said Araby. “ When- 
ever there was frost at Eccram we used to skate. 
The park pond is very shallow, and it bears before 


104 


Time and the Woman 


anything else — I mean a very short frost used to get 
us a day’s skating.” 

“ Who is ‘us’?” 

“ The vicarage boy and girl and myself.” 

“ How old is the boy? ” 

“ Nineteen or twenty now I suppose.” 

“ Describe him.” 

“ How can I ? Dark, tall, rather lanky — what 
use to tell you that ? The words don’t express him. 
He is at Woolwich now — the shop, I think they call 
it. He taught me to skate. I wish I could do all 
that he can do.” 

“ What was his name ? ” 

“ Pine — Herbert Pine.” 

“ Has any one ever told you you are pretty ? ” 

Araby colored. She evaded the question. 

“ You have assured me that I am not,” she 
said. 

“ Do you think you are yourself ? ” 

“ Oh, mother, how can I tell ? ” 

“ You are not blind,” said Mrs. Ruthven, shortly. 
She was lying back now in a deep chair ; her hands 
were clasped behind her head, and she looked at 
Araby with half-closed eyes. 

Araby moved uneasily. 

“ You have assured me that I am not,” she said 
again. 

“ And,” said Mrs. Ruthven, “ is your confidence 
in me such as to make you believe all that I say ? ” 


Time and the Woman 


105 


The movement that Araby gave then was once 
more indicative of her uneasiness. She looked at her 
mother furtively and looked away. There was a 
long pause. 

“ And you judge me — you said Mrs. Ruthven 
then, — “you who understand nothing, and don’t 
even know what is before you and behind me. What 
can you know of me, Araby? There are excuses 
that you would not realize even if I explained them 
to you, which I certainly shall not. I doubt whether 
God Himself could understand me — yet He made 
me, I suppose. And you, I have not any doubt, 
judge me by your own inexperience.” 

Araby looked about for some shelter. A book lay 
beside her, but she lacked the courage to open it and 
read deliberately. She took up a photograph which 
was standing unframed upon a table. She handled 
it nervously and in abstraction. Presently she saw 
that she held a likeness of Gerald. It was a new one, 
and it had been promised to Mrs. Ruthven before 
even it was taken. Indeed the promise and the 
photograph stood to each other in the light of cause 
and effect. 

“ Oh,” said Araby, hoping to change the subject, 
even at the risk of starting so dangerous another as 
that she was choosing, “ what a nice photograph.” 

She looked at it attentively. It seemed to her that 
it gave her the protection she was seeking. The 


106 


Time and the Woman 


likeness was admirable, and neither flattered the 
original nor maligned him. It was Gerald Ventnor 
as she knew him and as she thought of him. He 
wore some violets in his coat. Araby was scarcely 
aware of the danger of the ground on which she was 
treading. 

“ How fond he is of them,” she said, speaking of 
the flowers. 

“Who is fond of what?” 

“ Mr. Ventnor of violets,” said Araby. 

There flashed upon her vividly at this moment the 
recollection of the color under a lamp of a bunch she 
had lately seen. We remember that while Gerald 
had been talking to her the night before in the vesti- 
bule of the St. James's Hall she had unconsciously 
contemplated the closely packed violets he was wear- 
ing in his coat. She had a certain experience 
in arranging flowers, for Mrs. Ruthven always 
made her of use in this respect, and all unconsciously, 
in her unconscious scrutiny of those Gerald carried 
in his button-hole, she had vaguely thought how 
elaborately each blossom must be wired. Something 
in the stiffness of the result had displeased her. She 
was only now aware of this. Partly because any- 
thing connected with Gerald was at this time of 
paramount interest to her, and partly, too, to avert 
a renewal of the embarrassing experience of the last 
few moments, Araby commented upon the wiring 


Time and the Woman 107 

of flowers, and the effect manque in consequence 
thereof, of those of which she was thinking. She 
was very young, you see, and she had an occasional 
way of dogmatizing. It was amusing, and not with- 
out a certain charm. 

“ Of course one knows that wire is necessary,” 
she said with the air of a judge, “but one ought 
never to know that it is there.” 

Now it chanced that Gerald Ventnor had not 
been wearing the violets in question at dinner. Mrs. 
Ruthven, who had stopped her carriage and bought 
them on the way to the theatre, had given them to 
him there. 

“ When did you see them ? ” said Mrs. Ruthven, 
suddenly. 

“ Last night,” said Araby. 

“ But you left half-way through dinner, and I 
bought them myself as we drove to the theatre.” 

Araby suddenly grew pale, then crimson. Mrs. 
Ruthven was not looking at her, and she hoped 
that her admission might escape notice. 

“ You don’t know what you are talking about,” 
Mrs. Ruthven said. She had been annoyed by 
her daughter’s criticism of that which she had 
chosen. “ I thought you didn’t. You presume to 
give your opinion upon a thing which it turns out 
you have never seen.” She broke off. “ How did 
you know about them ? ” she asked. 


108 


Time and the Woman 


Araby had begun to breathe again. Now once 
more that unconquerable awe of her mother took 
possession of her, and she was silent. She turned 
the photograph over and over in her hands. She 
looked down. 

“Yes; how did you know about them?” said 
Mrs. Ruthven again. 

The full glare of a tall lamp was on Araby 
where she sat. She felt as some spy may feel when 
the search-light is turned upon him, and changes 
night to open day. 

Araby’ s color and her expression arrested her 
mother’s attention. Momentary relief came in the 
form of the butler with letters. Araby, under 
pretext of seeing whether there were any for her- 
self, changed her place. In so doing she left 
Gerald’s photograph behind her, and she felt that 
she had parted with a talisman. 

Mrs. Ruthven glanced at her letters. She opened 
them. They were of small importance, and she did 
not read them. She was wondering whether it 
could be that Gerald Ventnor had discussed her with 
Araby. It was the fancy of a jealous woman. 
Even that, she thought, would not account for that 
which was puzzling her. 

“ Look here, Araby, something is confusing you. 
I can see that well enough, and I can see too that 
whatever it is concerns what we were talking of.” 


Time and the Woman 


109 


Araby tried to protest, but she was scrupulously 
conscientious as to truth, and she was not a woman 
of the world, and could neither parry nor evade 
straight questions. 

“ Will you tell me,” said Mrs. Ruthven, im- 
patiently, “ how you knew that these violets existed 
at all ? ” 

Araby was silent. 

“ Well? ” 

Araby heard the moments ticking slowly from 
the clock on the mantel-piece. The pendulum was a 
Cupid in a swing. Araby thought that he was mark- 
ing out the span of her torture and protracting it. 
She thought of a certain clock in Eccram which had 
once ticked out the measure of a youthful punish- 
ment. Then she thought of the old aunts. 

“ Oh, Aunt Clara,” she thought, “ if I could go 
back to you ! ” 

This was the aunt who had wept with her when 
the punishment was over. It had been administered, 
Araby remembered, for some trifling obstinacy. 
Araby’s own tears had flowed during the enforced 
detention in the schoolroom on that summer day, 
and when all was over and peace restored, Miss 
Wootton had gently pointed out to her how many 
tears might have been saved by opening the 
rebellious little heart at once. Relevantly or not, 
Araby thought of all this in those few moments. 


110 


Time and the Woman 


“Well?” said Mrs. Ruthven once more; “and 
when I ask questions I like answers. I am wait- 
ing, Araby. I want to be told how you knew at 
all of the existence of the violets Mr. Ventnor was 
wearing ! ” 

“ Because I saw them.” 

“ I tell you at dinner they weren’t there ! ” 

“ I saw them later.” 

“When? later? be explicit, Araby. I don’t 
choose to drag it from you word by word, and I 
mean to know ! ” 

Araby looked desperately at the photograph which 
she had left upon the table. She felt that in admitting 
the meeting at the St. James’s Hall, she would im- 
plicate Gerald. She had a wish to implore his for- 
giveness. 

“ I mean to know,” said Mrs. Ruthven again. 

Araby then bowed to the inevitable, and made 
her innocent confession with a feeling of guilt that 
would have done credit to a criminal. Yet the 
incident in itself was nothing. The concealment of 
it magnified it out of all proportion to the actual 
facts of the case, and she felt as one convicted of a 
crime. She had incurred her mother’s displeasure, 
and worse than that, she had been in a manner dis- 
loyal to Gerald. She was oppressed by a sense of 
the injustice of circumstance, for under the con- 
sciousness of her offence in the matter, was the 


Time and the W oman 111 

knowledge that her mother could not fairly expect 
her confidence. But so strictly had she been brought 
up in the belief that concealment of any sort is 
wrong, that she was far more distressed than was at 
all warranted. 

Mrs. Ruthven meanwhile rapidly reviewed the 
situation. She took a definite line presently, over- 
looking the consequences in her haste. 

“ As you said nothing about it, Araby,” she said, 
“ I was determined to make you tell me. It was 
really very good-natured of Mr. Ventnor to go, 
as I told him at the time. When he pretended that 
he had done it of his own accord, I am afraid he 
rather exceeded his instructions. I shall talk to him 
about it. I wonder you didn’t see that he was 
amusing himself. He isn’t thoughtless, as men go — 
at least I have not found him so ; but it wasn’t quite 
fair to make fun of you, was it? ” 


112 


Time and the Woman 


CHAPTER IX. 

Mrs. Ruthven had no sooner said this than 
she regretted it. She was seldom short-sighted, and 
she realized at once that a word to Gerald would 
naturally elicit the fact, that in claiming to have 
sent him on the mission to the St. James's Hall she 
had departed from the truth. 

The immediate result of this falsehood was, how- 
ever, of import to Araby. It brought many small 
things to an issue. All day there had been growing 
in Mrs. Ruthven’s mind an aversion to the sudden 
intimacy which was apparently springing up between 
her daughter and Gerald Ventnor. We are begin- 
ning to know Mrs. Ruthven by this time, and her 
reasons are not very far to seek. Such young men 
as she chose to annex she was accustomed to con- 
sider her own indisputable property. For this day at 
least Araby on winged feet had outstripped her. 
Gerald was obviously attracted to the girl. The fact 
of his having left the theatre on the previous even- 
ing (on some trifling and false pretext), in order to 
rush off — and Gerald was lazy rather than energetic 
— on the chance of being of use to her, seemed to 


Time and the Woman 113 

prove that Araby’s power over him was greater than 
her mother cared to think. 

Araby said nothing, and presently went to bed. 
She neither believed nor did she entirely disbelieve 
that which her mother had just told her. She was 
very unhappy, and she could not trace results to 
their definite causes. She was bewildered too, and 
she thought with shuddering of the evening she had 
gone through. Her mother was to her as unintel- 
ligible as ever, and she was now ten times more 
alarming. Araby cried herself to sleep. 

Mrs. Ruthven stayed in the drawing-room to 
think. She had made a mistake, she told herself 
again, in claiming a knowledge of Gerald’s meet- 
ing with Araby at the St. James’s Hall. The next 
time that Araby saw him it was to be expected 
that she would make some allusion to the unfortunate 
statement, and the next time that Araby saw Gerald 
would in all probability be on the morrow, if with 
Mrs. Ruthven she dined at Lady Ventnor’s, and 
went on to Lady George Athol’s dance. In Barn 
Street she would dance with Gerald. Perhaps she 
danced as well as she skated. Araby, who was not 
out, would enjoy this dance with the attractive and 
ingenuous enjoyment of a girl at her first ball, and 
Araby’s cheeks would glow and her eyes would 
glow, and Gerald would see it, and something of her 
enchantment would be conveyed to him, and Araby’s 


114 


Time and the Woman 


hold on him would be strengthened. Then there 
would be moments that seemed made for con- 
fidences, and Gerald would hear of Mrs. Ruthven’s 
version of the incident of his rush from the Strand 
to Piccadilly, and his eyes would be opened, and 
Araby and he would be drawn nearer to each other 
in combining against her. Her inaccuracy had been 
trifling, but it might have dire issue. She smiled 
to herself, but her teeth were clenched. The grim 
irony of the case presented itself to her. 

The swinging Cupid was measuring out an un- 
pleasant quarter of an hour for her too. She sat 
still for a long time. She held a book, but she made 
no attempt to read it. She closed her eyes, and lay 
back amongst her cushions. They seemed to afford 
her small ease, for she moved them impatiently, and 
rearranged them more than once. 

She rose presently, and throwing down her book, 
she went over to the mantelpiece and looked at the 
clock. The time was eleven. She heard the servants 
going up to bed, and noted the heavy footfall of the 
cook. Olympe was not less stout, but she had an 
elasticity that discounted her weight. Mrs. Ruthven 
felt that just then she could not sleep, and she called 
to her from the landing not to sit up for her. 

She went to the window and drew aside the 
curtains. Primate Street was white with powdered 
snow. A policeman turned his bull’s-eye down 


Time and the Woman 115 

white areas and on to white door-steps. A cab 
went noiselessly by ; a cat crossed the road furtively, 
and disappeared through some railings. Here and 
there lights dotted the houses. 

Mrs. Ruthven gave a sigh that was partly restive. 
She pulled back the curtain impatiently, and she 
began to pace the room. Sounds ceased gradually 
in the house. A blind rattled as it was pulled up in 
a bedroom. There was silence after that, and then 
there came a moment when the limits of the space 
which Mrs. Ruthven was pacing became unendurably 
confined. It seemed to her as she moved about the 
room that it was getting smaller. She felt restrained 
and cramped. The fire had fallen low in the grate, 
and though the embers glowed with the brightness 
of frost, the air was very cold. 

“ I will go out,” Mrs. Ruthven said, suddenly and 
aloud. “ I must go out. If I went to bed I should 
not sleep.” 

She stole up to her room, and chose a thick veil 
and a loose cloak. She closed the door gently be- 
hind her, and started walking briskly. She had no 
design. She wanted to move, that was all, and to 
expend thus the restlessness that possessed her. She 
passed through Berkeley Square. The gaunt trees 
were painted in whites and blacks. Presently she 
was in Bond Street. It seemed to belong to her 
that empty night. Here was Castanet's, where 


116 


Time and the Woman 


Gerald and $he had talked; there was the gallery 
where later she had met Araby. She shuddered, and 
walked faster. She found herself noting the names 
on shops as one does at such times as one finds 
shutters closed. She reached Piccadilly. 

She shrank from contact with the women who 
passed her. In twos and threes they walked or 
singly, and she wondered what each thought of 
the other. A large negress walking modestly 
horrified her. She crossed to the lonelier side of 
the street. The Green Park spread itself whitely 
behind the railing, and the stars were twinkling 
above in a frosty sky. Snow gave crisply under 
her feet. She watched the traffic eastward and 
westward; horses strained and slid on the slippery 
road. 

She reached Hyde Park Corner then, and she 
walked on. The omnibuses came now at longer 
intervals. She turned down Seville Street, and 
into Lowndes Square, where she found more white 
trees, then through Lowndes Street she walked into 
Cadogan Place and Sloane Street. 

That was the Norfolk’s house, that small one 
between a larger two. It was all dark. The paint- 
ing of the houses on either side did not tend to 
make it look less dark. Mrs. Ruthven thought of 
the night when after supper at Gerald’s club she had 
driven the Norfolk girl home, and by the same 


Time and the Woman 


117 


token, she remembered that she had not returned 
Mrs. Norfolk’s call. 

Her restlessness was now somewhat abated. You 
can walk everything off, she said to herself, from a 
cold to an affair of the affections; and this was 
neither the one nor the other. Another mile, she 
thought, and she might return home with the 
knowledge that there sleep would await her. She 
dreaded sleeplessness as she dreaded little else. She 
had known stifling nights in India, when physical 
discomfort had made rest impossible, and she had 
known a wakefulness that was worse than anything 
that could be caused by the mere state of the 
thermometer. It was horrible to lie awake, to hear 
the hours strike, and to think, and think, and think, 
till nothing seemed real. . . . 

She had done wisely in coming out. The moon 
was up, and threw black shadows on to the snow. 
The number of the stars seemed to increase ; London 
looked clean and pure. Walking aimlessly still, Mrs. 
Ruthven passed along Pont Street, and presently she 
found herself in Lennox Gardens. The name caught 
her eye, and it was a moment before she remem- 
bered that here lived Lady Ventnor. She sought and 
found her number. It was a big red house such as 
new London builds. It had a porch with a massive 
gate of wrought iron, behind which was a white 
hall door. A balcony ran across the breadth of 


118 


Time and the Woman 


the house, and broadened over the door to the width 
of the roof of the porch. 

Mrs. Ruthven crossed the road. 

A hansom was coming up the street, its lights, 
like eyes of fire, glistening on the snow. The 
occupant with his stick was directing the driver. 
It was Gerald who jumped out, and was delayed 
for a moment while he paid his fare. Mrs. Ruthven 
saw his face clearly. He ran up the steps, and hav- 
ing swung the iron gate after him, he let himself 
into the house with a latch-key. Mrs. Ruthven 
heard the locking and the bolting of the door on 
the inside, and she made up her mind about Araby. 


Time and the Woman 


119 


CHAPTER X. 

The morning brought Lady Ventnor’s note en- 
dorsing her daughter’s invitation. Lady Ventnor 
begged Mrs. Ruthven to waive ceremony. She had 
been wishing to call, and would have done so but 
for so and so, or so and so, and Miss Ventnor had 
taken so great a fancy to Araby that Lady Ventnor 
hoped, and so on. 

This note was the outcome of a severe tussle 
between Miss Ventnor and her mother. 

“ People I know nothing about,” Lady Ventnor 
said. “ You had no right to ask them here without 
consulting me.” 

“ My good mother,” said Miss Ventnor, quietly, 
“ don’t make such a fuss about nothing. They 
are Gerald’s friends, and they are entirely charm- 
ing. Lady George was enchanted with them yester- 
day, and implored them to come to her dance. I 
couldn’t do less than ask them to dine here and go 
with us; I did, and there’s an end of it. Now it 
only remains for you to write and add your invitation 
to mine ” 

“ I won’t be dictated to by my children,” said 
Lady Ventnor, feebly. 


120 


Time and the Woman 


“ There is paper,” said Miss Ventnor, sweetly. 

“ I shall not write,” said Lady Ventnor. “ You 
must put them off, and get out of the mess as 
best you can. You have no one to blame for it 
but yourself.” 

Here Lady Ventnor edged towards the door, but 
her daughter intercepted her. 

Then Lady Ventnor began to cry, after which 
she wrote effusively, as we know. 

Mrs. Ruthven met Araby in the morning as if 
nothing had happened. Araby, indeed, expected no 
unusual mood. Her mother was always unaccount- 
able. 

“ You would like to go to Eccram, Araby.” 

“ To Eccram?” 

Mrs. Ruthven explained that the old aunts had 
written a few days since upon the subject. She had 
said nothing to Araby at the time, but had kept the 
invitation open. 

“ You can go,” said Mrs. Ruthven. 

A week sooner Araby would have been over- 
joyed. Now she received the permission with a 
sudden misgiving. She controlled her feelings and 
thanked her mother. 

“ And you had better help Olympe to pack,” said 
Mrs. Ruthven. 

“ What, now, mother ? ” 

Her tone expressed her amazement 


Time and the Woman 


121 


“ Yes, dear.” 

Araby’s face fell. 

“ When am I to go ? ” she ashed. 

In spite of her the question framed itself in this 
form. 

“ To-day.” 

“ Mother!” 

“ Aren’t you glad ? ” said Mrs. Ruthven, smiling. 
“ You have talked to me of the delights of Eccram 
till all was blue, and now that I give you a chance of 
tasting them again, you look aggrieved. You are 
inconsistent.” 

Araby said nothing for a few moments. She 
was seeking a motive for this sudden plan of her 
mother’s. She knew Mrs. Ruthven’s words to be 
laws inexorable and unchangeable as those of the 
Medes and Persians. For a second or so she thought 
of rebellion, but Gerald seemed to have deserted 
her, and she stood alone. Thrown back upon her- 
self, she reviewed the situation much as Mrs. 
Ruthven herself would have reviewed it. She 
knew that her mother had received a note from 
either Lady or Miss Ventnor, because amongst the 
letters which she sent up to her room there had been 
one across the envelope of which was stamped in a 
somewhat assertive die the address of the house in 
Lennox Gardens. It might be that something had 
occurred to postpone the dinner and the dance. It 


122 


Time and the Woman 


would be a relief to know, since she was not to be 
present, that neither was going to take place. There 
was a second hypothesis in the forlorn hope that 
Mrs. Ruthven had forgotten the engagements for 
the evening. 

“ But Lady Ventnor’s?” said Araby tentatively 
at last, “ Lady Ventnor’s and the George Athols’ ? ” 

Mrs. Ruthven looked at her hands, and twisted 
round a certain ring that never failed her in mo- 
ments that were difficult or perplexing. Araby 
had a theory that her mother consulted it. It 
was set with emeralds that blazed as with sea 
flames, and it had an Indian history. It had been 
torn from the hand of a dead ranee, and a dismal 
tale of ill-luck descended with it to one who gave 
it to Mrs. Ruthven with its full pedigree, and the 
wish that it might prove her destruction as she had 
proved his. Mrs. Ruthven laughed at the time, 
declaring that she was not superstitious. 

“ We shall be very good friends, you and I, 
little ring,” she prophesied, with a success that 
had followed her at least up to the time of which 
I write. 

“ Well, that is just it,” she said presently in 
answer to Araby’s ventured question. “ I don’t 
want to take you to this dance. You are not out, 
Araby, and I disapprove of girls going to balls 
before they are.” 


Time and the Woman 


123 


“But a small dance ! Lady George said it 

was to be a small dance.” 

“ Dear Araby, don’t argue. I am sorry if you 
are disappointed. You would not really have 
enjoyed it. Very young girls either bore men — 
a boredom I can tell you which reacts upon the 
girl — or else they amuse them, in which case the 
unhappy girl is made a fool of. I don’t want this 
to happen with you, Araby; what you told me last 
night showed me how easily this would happen with 
you. You must wait. I will present you this year, 
and after that your fun can begin, and I shall give 
you plenty of freedom ; but till then — and it is only a 
few months — you must be content.” 

Araby said nothing. The covert allusion to 
Gerald had wounded her more deeply perhaps than 
her mother knew. If he had indeed been sent on 
that mission, which she had thought self-imposed, 
then it was true that he had laughed at her. And 
this was a terrible thought. It may be that Araby’s 
youth made it even the more terrible. It was with 
great difficulty that she kept the tears from her 
eyes. Now she would go. Now she wished to go. 
Nothing would have induced her to dine at Lady 
Ventnor’s, nor to dance in Barn Street. Yesterday 
had been too happy a day, and to-day came the 
penalty. Oh, London ! It stifled her ; it shut her in ; 
it crushed her. She had a fancy that Eccram would 


124 


Time and the Woman 


prove balm to her wounded feelings ; and there came 
to her a longing for it fiercer even than those she 
used to experience in the early days of her life in 
town. But it did not last. 

She left the room and ran up to her own. 

“ Olympe, I am going to Eccram. I am going 
to-day.” 

“ I know. I begin already to pack. Mademoiselle 
is glad to go ? ” 

Araby saw then that her trunk stood open at 
the foot of her bed. Olympe with careful selection 
had ranged beside it such things as she thought her 
young mistress would require. Under a chair lay 
her skates strapped neatly together. The sight of 
them brought to her a flood of recollections. Her 
lips trembled. 

“ Yes, I am glad to go. I — never was so glad 
about anything before, ^am going home — home.” 

Something in’ the tone of the voice that spoke 
made Olympe look up suddenly. She had just knelt 
down beside the box, and was taking out the tray 
as a preparation for the beginning of her labors. 
She put it hurriedly down beside her on the floor, 
and rose to her feet as rapidly as her build would 
allow. 

The next moment Araby was crying on her ample 
bosom. In all her woe Araby remarked that she 
had never before known how ample it was. It had 


Time and the Woman 


125 


a roundness and a warmth that somehow suggested 
the maternity that lay in the good woman’s na- 
ture, and if the soothing words, half of French and 
half of English, that Olympe spoke tenderly and 
caressingly into her ears made her tears to flow but 
the more freely, Araby was greatly comforted. No 
explanation was asked and none offered between 
them. Olympe had a tact that would have been 
invaluable in other walks of life. It had indeed its 
very appreciable worth in her own. 

She regarded Araby with an affection and a 
pity that lost nothing from the fact of her admira- 
tion for Araby’s mother. She alone possibly of 
all who knew Mrs. Ruthven, approached to an 
understanding of her. Olympe had lived in strange 
places, and had what her late mistress once called 
the devil’s own experience. It was experience, how- 
ever, for the most part at second-hand, and Olympe 
was content to look on. 

“ Je me connais en hommes,” she said, much 
as Napoleon may have said it. Moreover she could 
add, “ En femmes aussi.” 

Araby, then, dried her eyes after a time, and 
even was led to take some small interest in her 
packing. She thought of Eccram, and the old 
aunts who would be so glad to see her. They 
would come running out into the hall, Miss Laura 
possibly carrying unconsciously at her back the 


126 Time and the Woman 

antimacassar off the chair in which she had been 
sitting. (The antimacassars at Eccram were ag- 
gressive, and of a terrible kind of work, which is, 
I believe, called crochet, and which composes it- 
self of loops and chains, that catch on to buttons.) 
Araby smiled in recollection of the day when one 
of her aunts had taken unwittingly an antimacassar 
to church. Behind all this was the burning thought 
of Gerald. She was hurt beyond endurance — if 
the words had any meaning, for what is there in 
life that cannot be endured? — by the suggestion 
that he had made her his fair sport. At one moment 
she believed it, at another she had the conviction 
that her mother had not been bound strictly .by any 
regard for truth. At dinner that night at Lady 
Ventnor’s she would have been able to tell from his 
manner. . . . 

She could not bear to think of Lennox Gardens 
or Barn Street. Oh, let her think of Eccram, 
where nothing that was disturbing could enter. 
She would throw herself into all the old country 
pleasures. She would fill her days so full that 
there would be no time for thoughts of Gerald to 
come to her. She would visit the old women in 
the village; she would walk for miles; she would 
ride if the frost broke up. Perhaps Herbert Pine 
would be at home. Then she would skate with 
him, and forget Gerald. She shuddered as she 


Time and the Woman 127 

thought this. There would be the animals any- 
way, the horses, the dogs. Herbert Pine used to 
be a little bit in love with her. It would be nice 
to have some one in love with you, so that you 
could shrug your shoulders at some one else. 
Yes, she would take her prettiest frocks after all. 
And she would take her Bond Street hat for 
Sundays. The vicarage pew commanded that of 
the Hall. It would be nice too to be fresh from 
London, and to be looked at with interest. Horrid 
London! dreadful London! where everything was 
hollow, and there was no truth or faith! Still to 
come thence into the heart of a somewhat back- 
ward part of the country, where at least she would 
be better-looking and better dressed than any of 
the local girls, was not without its attendant satis- 
factions. Araby was startled by the opening of 
the door and the appearance of her mother. 

“ I have just told them to get you some lunch, 
dear. You have not very much time, because I 
find that you must be at Euston by three. You 
reach Eccram at nine to-night, and I have tele- 
graphed to your aunts to have you met. I am 
going to lunch with you now, and I will go to 
Euston with you and see you off, and tell the 
guard to look after you. I wish I could send 
Olympe with you.” 

“ I shall be all right alone, mother. I have trav- 
eled alone before.” 


128 


Time and the Woman 


“ Exactly. Now come and have something to 
eat, and Olympe will finish packing for you.” 

Araby followed her mother from the room. Mrs. 
Ruthven’s manner was kind, even affectionate. 
She gave Araby more money than it was possible 
that she could want. She entrusted her with warm 
messages to the Miss Woottons. 

“I shall miss you, Araby. You won’t believe 
that perhaps, but I shall. You are a very good girl 
in some ways, and I dare say I am rather trying to 
you.” 

Araby murmured something, she was not sure 
what. She made an effort to eat, but her plate went 
away much as it had come to her. Sometimes she 
wondered whether she was not dreaming — the 
whole thing was so sudden. She found it difficult to 
realize that she was going away. Presently she 
began to wonder how long her visit was to last. 
The old aunts were so much attached to her that 
they, she knew, would be unwilling to fix a limit to 
its duration. 

“ I believe you are a little sorry to go,” Mrs. 
Ruthven said. 

“ I am,” said Araby — “ for many things. But I 
shall be very glad to see them all again at Eccram.” 

“ Of course.” 

Araby waited a few moments, and then asked — 

“How long shall I be away ? ” 


Time and the Woman 


129 


“ We need not settle that just now,” said her 
mother. “ Perhaps I may go down myself ; I don’t 
know. I may be dull when you are gone, and I may 
follow you down.” 

Araby looked round the room. It had a few 
associations for her now. Some of them were agree- 
able, and some were painful, and some of them 
were at this moment both. She thought of the 
morning when she had first begun to think of Gerald. 
That was so short a time ago ! 

“ And you must write to me,” said Mrs. Ruthven. 
“ I should not be at all surprised if we were better 
friends when next we meet. You wish to like me, 
don’t you ? ” 

“ If you would let me, mother.” 

Mrs. Ruthven rang for coffee, and not many 
minutes later a cab stood at the door. 


130 


Time and the Woman 


CHAPTER XI. 

Mrs. Ruthven never cheapened herself — she 
was far too clever a woman for that; and after all 
she wrote a note to Lady Ventnor, excusing herself 
from dining in Lennox Gardens on the ground of 
the absence of Araby. The immediate result of this 
was, as Mrs. Ruthven expected, that two days later 
Lady Ventnor called formally in Primate Street, 
though she said all sorts of things to her daughter, 
and again abused Mrs. Sandon to her for the intro- 
duction. But to Barn Street Mrs. Ruthven deter- 
mined to go. 

When she had left her note she directed her 
coachman to Earl Street. She had seen little of 
Mrs. Sandon of late, and she was glad to find her 
at home. Mrs. Sandon received her with open 
arms. 

“And what have you done with Araby?” she 
asked. 

“ Sent her down to see the Wootton women to 
Eccram.” 

“What for?” 

“ Fun,” said Mrs. Ruthven. 


Time and the Woman 131 

“ Whose? ” said Mrs. Sandon. She looked at her 
cousin for a few moments in silence. “ Now I 
wonder why, really,” she said then with amusement. 
“ You told her probably that she wanted country 
air. So we all do. But I wonder what your real 
reason was ? ” 

Mrs. Ruthven laughed merrily. 

“ Araby likes Eccram.” 

Mrs. Sandon frowned, but her eyes continued to 
smile. 

“ I ought to lecture you,” she said at last. “ I dis- 
apprpve of you dreadfully. I content myself with 
discussing you with Lady Murgatroyd. I tell her 
all that I have against you — and there is a good 
deal, Johnnie. The odd thing about it is, that she 
always takes your part.” 

“ I like Lady Murgatroyd,” said Mrs. Ruthven — 
“ which suggests at this moment cause and effect, 
doesn’t it? But I like her, and she interests me as 
an example, a smybol almost, of the unsatisfied. 
She comes to see me very often.” 

A ring heralded a visitor, and it was Lady Mur- 
gatroyd who was announced. She looked tired 
and depressed. She brightened up as she saw Mrs. 
Ruthven. She talked more rapidly than of old, and 
hurried from subject to subject. Mrs. Ruthven 
looked at the clock after a time. She had to order 
some flowers to wear at Lady George’s dance. 


132 


Time and the Woman 


“ OH, you are going there,” said Lady Murga- 
troyd; “ so am I. Will you dine with me? and we 
can go together. It would be charitable. If you 
have no other engagement, do come.” 

Mrs. Ruthven had no other, and she accepted the 
invitation. 

The house in Primate Street felt empty when she 
returned to it to spend the two hours that would in- 
tervene between then and eight o’clock. It was al- 
ways amusing to tease Araby; but just now Mrs. 
Ruthven was not sure that she would have felt any 
inclination to tease her. 

She thought of her walk of the night before with 
wonder. It was very seldom that her heart got the 
better of her head, but at least for once in the bat- 
tle it had triumphed. She preferred to keep it well 
under control. Her head, while allowing her much 
freedom, had kept her to a straight path. 

Lady Murgatroyd’s house was on the opposite 
side of Earl Street to that of Mrs. Sandon. It 
was very much smaller, but otherwise of the same 
build. Lady Murgatroyd met Mrs. Ruthven grate- 
fully. 

“ It was really kind of you to come. Do my 
canaries bother you ? ” 

The birds in question, regardless of the hour, 
were screeching in the back drawing-room. Lady 
Murgatroyd had been playing the piano, and she 


Time and the Woman 


133 


explained that this always started them off. She 
threw a cloth over the cage and the noise ceased. 
Mrs. Ruthven admired the rooms. She had not 
seen them by lamplight before. She said that Lady 
Murgatroyd had been fortunate in hitting upon a 
paper that lighted up so well. 

“ It was chosen for me by one who was once 
a great friend,” said Lady Murgatroyd, and she 
sighed, from which fact Mrs. Ruthven gathered that 
Sloane Wetherley, of whom she had heard from 
Mrs. Sandon, was not forgotten. 

Dinner passed uneventfully. Mrs. Ruthven would 
probably have been bored but for the knowledge 
that she was to see Gerald later on. On the pre- 
ceding night very possibly she might have been in 
sympathy with the temperament of her hostess, but 
to-night she felt once more her supremacy amongst 
women. She had a theory that plain people, and 
commonplace people, and people generally unattrac- 
tive, were protected from hopes and desires which 
could never be realized. She had thought that thus 
nature adjusted circumstances to meet cases. But 
her knowledge of Lady Murgatroyd told her that 
this plain woman suffered keenly. 

A certain photograph had lately made its reappear- 
ance in Lady Murgatroyd’s rooms. It stood framed 
on a table; unframed it lay here and there amongst 
others. Mrs. Ruthven took up one of these. 


134 


Time and the Woman 


Lady Murgatroyd watched her for a moment or 
two and began to tremble. Then quite quietly she 
told Mrs. Ruthven the ugly story of her friend. 

“ I would have trusted him with my soul,” she 
said in conclusion. 

Mrs. Ruthven, strangely enough, was con- 
stantly finding herself the recipient of confidences. 
Nothing ever surprised her. It would be difficult 
to say what it was in her that inspired people with 
the wish to tell her their tragedies, but, for whatever 
reason, both men and women were moved to raise 
for her the veil that hid their inner lives. 

She said little at the end of the present dis- 
closures, but she looked at the photograph with inter- 
est. Lady Murgatroyd seemed disappointed. She 
sighed impatiently, and changed the conversation. 

At length Mrs. Ruthven’s carriage came round. 
Both felt its arrival to be a relief. 

Barn Street was blocked with carriages. They 
reached up from the big stone house which was the 
George Athols’ to that end of the street where 
were such smaller houses as Mrs. Manton’s, and 
the Saltashes’, and that little pink house where once 
had lived Billy Hartley and Mary Anne Smith. 

Lady George was sincere in her regrets for the 
absence of Araby. Mrs. Ruthven made what ex- 
cuses seemed to her good, and with her smile passed 
on to Lord George. 


Time and the Woman 


135 


“ And you haven’t brought the beautiful daugh- 
ter,” he said. “ Perhaps it is just as well, as she 
isn’t out. Lady George’s small dances have a way 
of growing.” 

“ And what we are giving a dance for at all,” 
said Lady George, who had an ear for all that her 
husband said, “ with one girl married and one 
engaged, I don’t know. I believe we do this sort 
of thing to amuse our husbands, Mrs. Ruthven.” 

“ Yes, to amuse our husbands,” said Mrs. Ruth- 
ven. 

Lord George and she talked then for a few 
minutes of India, and found that they had much 
in common. Mrs. Ruthven looked about her seek- 
ing Gerald, but the Ventnors had not yet put in an 
appearance. The Norfolk girl nodded and smiled; 
Hartford leant against a pillar and looked gloomy. 
Mrs. Ruthven felt her youngest and wished to 
dance. The music tempted her. One of the Hun- 
garian bands was playing, and a waltz swung in the 
air. Lord George took her to see the ball-room. It 
was a great white room hung with blue, and lighted 
by electric light. A few people were dancing, but 
not many. 

“ It takes supper to make young London dance,” 
Lord George explained. “ They will wake up pres- 
ently. Still, this is winter, and they have small ex- 
cuse for being lazy. Shall we set an example ? ” 


136 


Time and the Woman 


They went twice round the room, then Lord 
George complained good-humoredly of his increas- 
ing stoutness. He was possibly not many years 
older than Mrs. Ruthven, but she looked, for to- 
night at least, as if she might have been his daughter. 
She saw him and herself in a looking-glass and 
noted this. 

“ I believe,” she said to herself, “ that in the end I 
shall grow old in a day. I shall shrivel up like She . 
Something must happen to me. I cannot go on for 
ever.” 

Gerald was standing in the doorway. Miss Vent- 
nor made her way to Mrs. Ruthven at once. She 
was full of her disappointment. Mrs. Ruthven as- 
sured her that the disappointment was her own and 
Araby’s. But women are quick in their judgments 
of women, and something in Mrs. Ruthven’s tone as 
she spoke of her daughter struck Miss Ventnor. She 
mentioned Araby again tentatively and remarked it 
once more. It suggested impatience and indifference. 
Miss Ventnor jumped to a conclusion that in its ac- 
curacy did her wits no little credit. At the same 
moment her host claimed her attention, and Gerald 
took her place. There flashed across Mrs. Ruth- 
ven as she greeted him the recollection of the sound 
of the bolting and the locking of the door on the 
previous night. She wondered what he would think 
if she were to tell him of the restlessness that had 


Time and the Woman 


137 


possessed her and that had driven her to walk for 
relief. But she had no thought of telling him; she 
was content to wonder. 

They stood and watched the dancing for a few 
minutes, and then moved to where they commanded 
a view of the band. 

The whole volume of the swinging waltz seemed 
to come from the violin of the conductor. The sway- 
ing of his head and of his body had a part in the 
measure of the music. 

“ Let us dance, 1 ” said Gerald, much as the prayer- 
book says, “ Let us pray.” 

They danced. Mrs. Ruthven was light and sup- 
ple. She laughed and said that she had danced last 
in India. That seemed a long time ago. 

Mrs. Ruthven nodded. 

“ I have a good deal to say to you,” she said. 

He left her presently and Hartford took his place. 
She kept him rigorously to the impersonal. She 
had no need just then of his devotion to tell her that 
her charm was potent. She saw it in the eyes of all 
who looked at her. 

People were asking about her. She recognized in 
the crowd one or two faces that she knew. Lady 
George made much of her — a clever woman Lady 
George, who was never jealous, and who cared so 
truly for her stout and good-tempered husband that 
she devoted herself to whomsoever he might chance 


138 


Time and the Woman 


to admire. She called it “ managing ” him. The re- 
sult of her system was patent to every one. There 
was not a pair in London united by a more solid 
and lasting attachment than Lord and Lady George 
Athol. 

“ It was so very good of you not to stand on 
ceremony,” Lady George said to Mrs. Ruthven. 

Mrs. Ruthven explained with her smile that she 
was not of the sort that stands upon anything so 
uncomfortable. 

“ We shall like each other,” said Lady George. 

Mrs. Ruthven saw a ladder to success in London. 
She began to wonder now whether it would not be 
worth her while to ascend it. Questions of course 
would be asked from time to time about her hus- 
band. She need not, however, confess that the in- 
difference which had for so many years reigned be- 
tween them had now given place to an intoleration 
which made a life together impossible. 

Araby would be a help to her, but then Araby was 
Araby. This brought her back to Gerald, and Gerald 
at this moment came to claim her for supper. 

They made their way together through the draw- 
ing-rooms and across the square landing, where 
Lady George received her guests, and down the wide 
stairs to the dining-room. Gerald secured a secluded 
table. Mrs. Ruthven looked round. Miss Norfolk 
and Hartford came into the room, and made their 


Time and the Woman 


139 


way first to the long table that ran across the end 
of it. Miss Norfolk demurred. Hartford took an 
indolent survey of the smaller tables and said that 
there wasn’t a seat, and that they would have to 
stand. 

Miss Norfolk, however, was not to be done out of 
a tete-artete supper, and she reconnoitred for her- 
self. She saw a sister in a corner, and leaving Hart- 
ford she went over to her to see what stage in the 
supper she had reached. 

“ Couldn’t you make your man eat a little faster ? ” 
she whispered. 

Her sister promised with a suppressed giggle, and 
not many minutes later Miss Norfolk and Hartford 
sat facing each other across a very tempting menu. 

“ An example of what you call esprit de corps ” 
said Miss Norfolk to herself. “ Ethel is a dear girl, 
and I will do the same for her some day.” 

She set herself then to the consumption of chicken 
and champagne and the conquest of Hartford. The 
chicken was tender, but Hartford was tough. 

“ A girl who deserves to get on,” said Mrs. Ruth- 
ven to Gerald. “ Who was it said that the mothers 
of Belgravia toiled all night and caught nothing ? It 
strikes me that some of the daughters work just 
as hard.” 

Gerald said something about fishers of men. 
There was a pleasant click of knives and forks. Mrs. 


140 


Time and the Woman 


Ruthven ate little and slowly. She watched the 
sparkling bubbles that rose in her champagne. 
There was a distant sound of dancing and of music, 
and now and then of the wheels of the carriage of 
an arriving or a departing guest. The centre of 
each table was adorned with violets, and the scent of 
them hung in the air. It arrested Mrs. Ruthven’s 
attention presently and took her back to the night 
before, and thence to the night before that. She was 
not quite certain yet what she should say to Gerald. 
While she was hesitating he asked her what she had 
to tell him. 

“ You said you had something to say to me.” 

Mrs. Ruthven raised her eyes slowly. 

“ It was to thank you for looking after Araby 
for me.” 

He said that it had been pleasant to look after 
her, as Mrs. Ruthven called it, that Miss Ruthven 
skated with unusual excellence. 

“ But I am not talking of Wimbledon,” said Mrs. 
Ruthven, “nor of yesterday at all, for the matter 
of that.” 

“ What then ? ” said Gerald lightly. He emptied 
his glass and refilled it. 

“ Why didn’t you tell me where you were going?. ” 
Mrs. Ruthven said quietly. 

Gerald flushed a little when he gathered her mean- 
ing, but he was not disconcerted. It would not have 


Time and the Woman 141 

been easy to rob him of the self-possession that 
was his birthright. 

“ It would have been making a fuss about such 
a very small thing, wouldn’t it?” he said, smiling. 
“ I wasn’t very long, and I had the satisfaction of 
knowing that I had put Miss Ruthven into a safe 
cab.” 

Mrs. Ruthven had intended to tell him herself of 
the misstatement she had made to Araby, but 
when it came to the time she found herslf un- 
able to make up her mind to risk the chance of his 
displeasure. This showed, by the way, how differ- 
ently she dealt with different people. She read char- 
acter easily and quickly, and the chief hold she had 
had over the man who had given her the ring of ill- 
luck had been her power to make him angry. 

Gerald was easy-going and good-tempered, and 
she hesitated to tell him that which might raise his 
blood. So she waited, and she talked of other 
things. 


142 


Time and the Woman 


CHAPTER XII. 

Miss Norfolk had a theory, whether consciously 
gleaned from Thackeray or not I cannot say, that 
any woman with patience and tact, especially tact, 
can make any man marry her. She aired this idea 
with others that were more or less advanced in the 
work-room at the top of the house in Sloane Street. 

She had an antagonistic sister somewhere amongst 
the five girls who stood to her in that relationship, 
and that sister said — 

“ Well, and why don’t you do it yourself?” 

This caused three of the other girls, together with 
the maid with the sewing-machine and the pair of 
large scissors, to giggle. The maid was so important 
a person in this house of lady-tailors that she was 
privileged. 

“ I shall in good time,” said Miss Norfolk, com- 
posedly. 

Netty, the pert sister, affected not to hear. 

“ Did you say,” she asked, threading her needle, 
“ did you say, — get out of the light, Anne, I can’t 
see, — did you say that it took a good time? ” 

Old jokes pass muster in large families. 


Time and the Woman 


143 


“ I gave you as much help as I could last night/’ 
said Ethel. She was working button-holes and she 
bit her cotton. 

“ You’ll spoil your teeth, miss,” said the maid, 
holding up a finger of solemn warning. “ However 
many times must I tell you that? I knew a young 
girl myself as wore hers to stumps through nothing 
else but biting thread.” 

“ Oh, I know all about that young person,” said 
Ethel. “ She died, didn’t she, Robson, from swal- 
lowing the ends of the thread that she bit off? ” 

“ They twisted themselves round her heart, Miss 
Ethel, — I should run a gusset there, Miss Anne, — 
and she suffered tortures through having to lay on 
a sofa for years owing to an injury done to the spine 
of her back when a child.” 

Robson’s speeches were masterly examples of non 
sequitur. 

“ It ought to be a warning to me,” said Ethel. 
“ Netty, give me the needle you have just threaded 
for yourself. Your eyes are a year younger than 
mine.” 

Netty grumbled good-humoredly. 

“And you know how I hate threading needles,” 
she said. 

“ But not for me,” said Ethel, sweetly. 

The tongues were silent then for a few minutes. 
The noise of the sewing-machine throbbed in the air 


144 


Time and the Woman 


like a fevered pulse. There was the sound of the 
drawing of a quick needle with its attendant cotton 
through silk. Miss Norfolk was cutting out on a 
table by the aid of paper patterns. The scissors 
made a curious noise against the wood. An iron 
stood against a small gas-stove. A pile of ladies’ 
fashion papers lay on the floor. 

Anne rose presently and measured some calico 
with her finger. She cut an opening into it of about 
an inch and began to tear it. It gave out an ex- 
cruciating sound which called forth a chorus of in- 
dignation, and sent the hands of all except the maid 
to their ears. 

“If you do that again I’ll scrag you,” cried Netty. 
“ I don’t quite know what it means, but I’ll do it.” 

Barbara said Anne was a Perfect Pig. Anne re- 
torted by tearing another length of calico. There 
was a commotion then, during which Robson im- 
plored convulsively for peace, declaring that she 
knew the iron would be knocked down, and that she 
had known a house burnt to the ground through the 
upsetting of a paraffin lamp. 

It was some minutes before order was restored. 

“And how did you help Harry last night?” 
asked Netty of Ethel, when once more a voice could 
make itself heard. 

“ Well, you see, Harry was on the Hartford 
chase last night,” said Ethel, looking from Netty, 


Time and the Woman 


145 


who folded her arms and put down her work to 
listen, to Miss Norfolk, who went on complacently 
cutting out, “ and after some difficulty in keeping 
him out of the coverts with Mrs. Ruthven, she ran 
him into the supper-room.” 

“ Feed men,” said Netty, who took her goods 
where she found them. 

“ It’s rather vulgar of you to put it that way,” 
said Ethel. 

“ You are both vulgar,” said Miss Norfolk, “ hor- 
ribly vulgar,” but she laughed. 

“ It is in the blood, you know,” said Netty. 
“ Mamma may say what she likes, but we’re not the 
Norfolk Norfolks really. I don’t believe we are even 
distant connections. Papa came from the States, 
and made his money ” 

“ Lost his money,” corrected Ethel. 

“ Yes, lost his money in tinned eels. And we have 
never heard of a grandfather. I believe his father 
died before he was born — his mother too I dare say, 
if one knew the truth.” 

“ Oh, Miss Netty,” said the maid, “ you will have 
your bit of fun. You do say things a treat.” 

“ Enfin, continuez, Mademoiselle,” said Netty, in 
the words and the intonation of a quondam gover- 
ness. 

“ Well, there wasn’t a table to feed him at,” said 
Ethel, “ and so I hurried up my partner — told him 


146 


Time and the Woman 


that I was engaged for the next dance and wanted 
to dance it, and in my unselfishness left half my me- 
ringue — and you know, Netty, how I adore me- 
ringues — and I gave her my place, and she fed him 
for half an hour, and then he didn’t speak.” 

“ But you know any woman can marry any man,” 
said Netty. 

Miss Norfolk, or Harry as she was called at home, 
smiled complacently to herself and continued to 
cut out. 

“ It would be dull up here, wouldn’t it,” she said 
abstractedly, “ if I didn’t give you something to talk 
about ? I wonder how this arm-hole ought to be cut. 
Come here, Robson, and tell me. No, Ethel, go on 
with your button-holes, I didn’t ask you.” 

“ And it’s well I came, miss,” said the maid 
when she had inspected Miss Norfolk’s operations. 
“ You’d have spoilt a piece of good stuff if you’d 
gone on. The pattern’s wrong itself.” 

In this way, and like many others, passed the 
morning succeeding the dance in Barn Street. 
Sometimes one or other of this family of good girls 
stretched her arms or pricked her finger, and spoke 
a small swear-word or gave a little cry. There would 
have been, that is to say, a certain monotony in the 
hours spent in the work-room but for the exuber- 
ance of the spirits of the workers. Mrs. Norfolk 
gave her daughters all the fun that she could afford, 


Time and the Woman 


147 


and in return they had to do their own dressmaking 
and hers. 

Having failed to get, as she would have expressed 
it, a rise out of her elder sister, Netty of the pert 
mouth and the mischievous eyes turned upon Anne. 

The Norfolk girls were all big and healthy, and 
of long and well-covered limbs, with the exception 
of Anne, the youngest. She had the family neat- 
ness of build but on a smaller scale, and the family 
complexion too, so far as the fineness of the texture 
of her skin went, but while the others had glow- 
ing colors she was pale. Where her sisters were 
assertive she was retiring. She was sensitive 
and observant. She saw indeed far too deeply 
into the heart and into the meaning of things for 
her own comfort. Under different conditions — had 
she, for example, been an only child — it is not im- 
probable that she would have been morbid, and pos- 
sibly hysterical, but the combined influences of her 
five robust sisters kept her from any prolonged 
brooding. She was not thought pretty at home, 
partly of course because the others were so much 
bolder in outline and coloring; but in the studios to 
which her art education took her she received a 
homage which satisfied her, and which told her that 
her looks in the house in Sloane Street were not ap- 
preciated merely because they were not understood. 

“ If they knew,” she said sometimes to herself, 
with an indrawing of her breath. 


148 


Time and the Woman 


She seldom went with her sisters into the society 
which they loved. She had her own friends in such 
impossible parts of London as West Kensington and 
Regent’s Park and Maida Vale, and she dressed in 
a way that seemed odd to all Pilotell-girls. Painting 
and study occupied much of her time. She devoted 
herself and her thoughts to art, but at this period 
her thoughts were inclined to wander. She worked 
patiently, and she had already been rewarded by 
the hanging of two of her pictures in good positions 
at minor exhibitions — a reward that was enhanced 
by the sale of the painting in both cases. 

She was the reading one of the family, and the 
bookshelves of her little bedroom showed a curious 
variety of literature. Possibly the fact that stout 
Mrs. Norfolk never troubled her head at all as to 
what her girls put into theirs did not tend to make 
this variety less various. Anne’s own taste was for 
the most part her protection. Indeed so little training 
had fallen to the share of the Miss Norfolks, that it 
was a matter of wonder to all who knew their mother 
that they should have turned out so well. For they 
were good girls, from the advanced Harry, who liked 
occasionally to affect outrageousness, to the quiet 
Anne. 

“ Anne,” said Netty, addressing her sisters, “ is 
unusually brilliant this morning.” 

“ What is it, Anne ? ” said Ethel. 


Time and the Woman 149 

“ Cheer up, Anne,” said Harry. 

“ Tell us all about it, Anne,” said Netty. — 
“ Really,” she added in parenthesis, “ making dresses 
for mamma becomes more difficult every year. If 
things go on like this her waist will soon be over 
the top of her head. It is an awful lookout for us, 
girls. Mamma was once as slight as Anne. Anne, 
your artist won’t want to paint you if you become 
bulky.” 

Mrs. Norfolk derived in her good-tempered way 
so much amusement from her own increasing size, 
that to jest upon the subject was legitimate in Sloane 
Street. 

Anne went on quietly with her work, but her 
needle trembled. The sunlight falling on her pale 
hair lit it up and showed its fineness. It was thick 
and dry, but shining, and she dressed it very simply. 
Her eyes were gray and large. Behind her was the 
blue background of the paper of the wall, and on this 
the sun struck too, throwing her shadow upon it so 
definitely in profile that her eyelashes were given as 
in a silhouette. 

Miss Norfolk, looking at her young sister sitting 
thus, and bending over her work in the winter sun- 
light, came at that moment near to understanding 
why it was Anne — and not herself, nor Ethel, nor 
Netty, nor Barbara and Helen, the twins — who on 
three occasions had been begged by painters of note 
to sit to them. 


150 


Time and the Woman 


Mrs. Norfolk, though she was really fond of her 
youngest daughter, always said apologetically and 
ungrammatically that it was because Anne knew 
“ those sort ” of people. 

But Miss Norfolk, I say, realized at this moment 
that that was not perhaps altogether the reason. 

“ We,” she said to herself, as the result of her ob- 
servation, “ we — and particularly myself — are crea- 
tures of the moment. If we didn’t change, and keep 
ourselves what they call at the Gaiety up to date, we 
should be out of fashion next year. But Anne is 
somehow permanent — as a — as a Greuze is perma- 
nent.” 

Miss Norfolk paused before the painter’s name, to 
find in her very superficial knowledge of art or 
artists one that should fit the case. She was more 
happy in the example that came to her than perhaps 
she altogether knew. 

A sudden recollection of Araby Ruthven told her 
that much the same thing applied to her also, and, 
while she wondered whether there was anything in 
common between the two girls, she continued almost 
unconsciously to gaze at Anne. 

Netty, idle now, and in a mood for mischief, with 
a recurrent use of the Christian name which expe- 
rience had taught her was a source of almost certain 
irritation to its owner — any Christian name and 
any owner — continued to exhort Anne to be of good 
cheer. 


Time and the Woman 151 

“ Bear up, Anne, ,, she said, “ bear up. Remember 
the comfortable words of your elder sister Harry, 
that any woman with patience and tact, especially 
tact, can marry any man. She hasn’t quite succeeded 
herself, you know, Anne. But she will in good time, 
Anne ; and so will you, Anne, if you try, Anne. Any 
woman, any man, Anne.” 

There was no answer. 

“ Anne!” 

“ Yes, Netty.” 

“ Are you cross ? ” 

“ Not yet, Netty.” 

“ Then I’ll make you,” said Netty. “ What do you 
think I’ve found out, girls?” 

Anne gave her sister an agonized look. But 
Netty in her present mood was adamant. 

“ Anne’s in love,” said Netty — “ in love with 
Dennis Leigh.” 

It was Miss Norfolk who caught her breath. 


152 


Time and the Woman 


CHAPTER XIII. 

And the cause of this sudden and small sign of 
possible feeling upon the part of Miss Norfolk was 
the mention of the name of a young barrister with 
little money and no briefs. 

He shared chambers with an equally impecunious 
friend, in Testament Buildings in the Temple, and 
here the two young men feasted and fasted as cir- 
cumstances permitted or ordained. 

Dennis had an allowance of a hundred a year from 
an uncle, who stated definitely that this was all that 
he could do for him, and the friend had scarcely as 
much. A joint income of barely two hundred a year 
was then all that was assured to a pair of boisterous 
fellows full of life and the love of it. 

Dennis hated London and damned it roundly. He 
wanted to hunt, and to shoot, and to fish, and to 
live in the open air. 

Abbot the friend said, “ Oh, damn y’r hunting, 
and y’r shooting, and y’r fishing, and y’r open air; 
London’s not a bad sort of place all round, if you’ve 
enough to eat and especially drink, and can afford 
a good tailor, and can take your amusements as 


Time and the Woman 


153 


amusements, without having to sit up half the night 
to write about them afterwards.” 

For these unhappy young men trod the stony bye- 
ways of journalism, and earned there, by dint of 
a work that was only made tolerable by the fact that 
it brought in its train such advantages as a free entry 
into theatres and the like, a sum sufficient to keep 
them. Dennis was clean-shaven, as became his 
would-be calling, and he had a profile that delighted 
you, but a full-face that was disappointing. He was 
an Oxford man, by the kindness of the uncle, and he 
looked back to his three years there as the happiest in 
his life. 

He was clever. He took to writing, and wrote 
well in a form that he despised. He took to it not 
because he liked it, but as a means of adding to his 
very slender income. He knew that he was built for 
things better than two weekly London letters, which 
brought him in a pound apiece, a certain amount of 
hurried literary criticism, and such dramatic press- 
work as Abbot, whose particular line was the theatre, 
and all that appertained to it, handed over to him. 
He cursed London as the home of his fettered life. 

Then there came a day when London underwent a 
change for him. It would be difficult to say exactly 
why he succumbed to the charms of Abbot’s cousin, 
Miss Norfolk. It was a year now since that winter 
day, when there was a laughing and a talking on 


154 


Time and the Woman 


the staircase of Testament Buildings, followed by a 
knocking at the joint door of Abbot and Leigh. 

It was Leigh who opened it. Netty nudged Ethel 
(Dennis saw her), and Miss Norfolk, in a voice 
that somehow conveyed to the young barrister that at 
the end of an argument she had been deputed spokes- 
woman, asked whether Mr. Abbot was at home. 

Mr. Abbot was at home. The girls walked in with 
demureness. Leigh saw Netty nudge Ethel again. 
Miss Norfolk was preternaturally solemn, but Dennis 
had a conviction that she wanted to laugh. She did 
when presently Abbot had received his cousins and 
introduced his friend to them. 

“We have often threatened you with a visit,” 
said Miss Norfolk, “ and to-day mamma took the 
twins to an * at home ’ somewhere, and Anne was 
painting, and Ethel and Netty and I were so dull — 
oh, do let me have the cup without a handle — that 
when Ethel proposed ” 

“ I didn’t,” said Ethel. 

“ Well then, Netty ” 

“Nor I,” said Netty. 

“ Well, when I proposed — yes, and sugar, please, 
thank you, Mr. Leigh — proposed bearding you in 
your den, Jimmy, they all jumped at it, and here we 
are. And is that where you keep your briefs — in that 
cupboard? Is it big enough? And what lovely 
muffins. Couldn’t we help you to toast them l And 


Time and the Woman 155 

do you receive your clients here — do you call them 
clients? And shall we be taken for clients? They 
will think we are breach of promise girls.” 

“ So this is really the Temple,” said Ethel. “ I 
thought it would have been dustier.” 

“ But you have laundresses, who keep it clean for 
you, haven't you?” said Netty, “ and you marry 
their daughter in the third act.” 

“Look at all their papers,” said Miss Norfolk, 
taking up a copy of the Bachelor , to which Dennis 
was an occasional contributor. “ The Bachelor , the 
Enu, the Lamp , the Gun ” She ran through a few 
of the names of journals that lay upon the table. 

“ I had no idea you had time for anything so in- 
teresting. I thought there would only be dreadful 
law papers like ” 

“ The Police News said Netty. She had once 
seen the sheet in a small newsagent’s in a back street. 

Abbot asked Leigh to say something that should 
uphold the dignity of the law. 

This tea-party was the first of many. Abbot, who 
often dined in Sloane Street, was asked to bring 
Dennis. He went. Netty and Ethel amused him; 
to the twins he was indifferent ; Anne looking at him 
shyly, interested him; but of Miss Norfolk he car- 
ried back to the Temple an impression that made 
him happy and miserable. 

Abbot said — 


156 


Time and the Woman 


“ Harry Norfolk is a good-looking girl, old chap, 
but don’t you singe your precious wings there. If 
she wasn’t so young, Dennis, I should call her a bit 
of an old soldier.” 

“ Get out,” said Leigh, morosely. 

“And my good aunt is a schemer if ever there 
was one,” added Abbot, sententiously. 

Dennis found London growing dear to him. It 
held Sloane Street, and Sloane Street held his di- 
vinity. He placed Miss Norfolk possibly upon a 
pedestal that was unreasonably high. He looked 
forward to her visits to the Temple and to his own 
to Chelsea. In the intervals he worked hard. Some- 
times when he saw her, he found Miss Norfolk’s 
eyes upon him, and afterwards he liked to think of 
that. Sometimes it helped him, sometimes it hin- 
dered. 

In the year that succeeded the making of her ac- 
quaintance, his pen brought him in two hundred 
pounds. Putting aside the fixed remuneration for 
his two London letters, the rest had come in small 
sums ranging from half a guinea to five pounds. 
His heart sank within him when he realized what 
labor this had cost him, and that this year had been, 
as years ago, a very good year. Abbot had not 
done so well, but Abbot did not mind drifting, and 
Dennis did ; Abbot lived in the present, Dennis had 
begun to face the future. He was elated and de- 


Time and the Woman 


157 


spondent by turns. Life seemed to him a good 
thing, and life seemed to him a curse. And Harry 
Norfolk looked at him curiously when she thought 
that he did not see her, and distantly at other times. 
She asked Abbot many questions about him. 

“ The best chap that ever lived,” said Abbot. 

He was devoted to his friend in a brusque and 
undemonstrative sort of way, and behind his back he 
liked to sing his praises. 

“And he is an orphan, didn’t you say?” asked 
Miss Norfolk. 

She knew that he had not said so, but she wished 
for information. 

“ An only son and an orphan,” replied her 
cousin. 

Miss Norfolk, thinking of the Norfolk dowery 
that had to be split up into six, said that it was some- 
thing to be an only anything — son or daughter. 

“ Hasn’t made much difference in his case,” said 
Abbot. “ That’s the devil of it. There was noth- 
ing to leave. He has a rich uncle, who put him 
generously to Oxford, and makes him now a small 
allowance.” 

“The same thing,” said Miss Norfolk. 

“It might be,” agreed Abbot, “but that the 
uncle, an old Johnny of sixty, has married a young 
wife, and has now a son of his own.” 

“ How annoying,” said Harry. 


158 


Time and the Woman 


She could not have said less if she had dropped 
her prayer-book on the wood pavement of Sloane 
Street, or pricked her finger, or knocked her white 
elbow; but she set her teeth after she had said it and 
she sighed. Abbot remarked nothing. He felt 
vaguely that that which he had told his cousin of 
his friend was mischief to the friend. 

“ And there,” he said to himself in an habitual ex- 
pression, “ is the devil of it.” 

Miss Norfolk often set her teeth after that, and 
looked at herself in the glass to note the tragedy of 
her expression. She was very much interested in 
finding that she had such feelings as she had read 
of in books. Sometimes, when she was not acting to 
an audience of a mirror with herself in it, her face 
wore a look that was very hopeless, and that bore 
an impress of truth that showed that there was a 
certain depth in the emotions, the outward expres- 
sion of which she liked to counterfeit. 

She met Hartford. She was more shrewd and 
worldly-wise than ever, robbed herself designedly of 
much of the freshness of her youth by acquiring, or 
pretending to, a knowledge of life that may have 
been harmless in its results, but that amazed such less 
modern girls as Araby; and she went more seldom 
to the Temple, and looked more distantly at Dennis. 

He did not fail to observe the change. It made 
him acutely miserable. Abbot was very sorry for 


Time and the Woman 159 

him, but to tell him that Miss Norfolk (in her 
cousin’s opinion) was not worth his thought of her 
would not have seemed to Dennis kind or friendly 
comfort. He was more silent, and he worked des- 
perately by fits and starts, with intervals, during 
which he cursed his fate, and flung his pen to an end 
of the room whither he would presently follow it to 
pick it up apologetically. Then the whole thing 
struck him as rather ludicrous, and he laughed at 
himself. 

Miss Norfolk and Ethel had gone, as we know, to 
Lady George Athol’s dance, and it was to keep them- 
selves fresh for this that they threw up an engage- 
ment to have tea with the two young barristers in 
Testament Buildings. 

“ Anne, you must go instead of me,” said Miss 
Norfolk. “ They asked three of us, and Netty and 
Barbara are going.” 

Anne drew back. 

“ You ought to go yourself, Harry,” she said, 
timidly. “ You know you promised, and — they will 
be awfully disappointed.” 

“ Oh,” said Miss Norfolk, hardly, “ all engage- 
ments are subject to the turning up of something 
better afterwards.” 

“ You are unjust — to yourself,” said Anne. 

Miss Norfolk made as if she would have retorted 
impatiently, but she did not. 


160 


Time and the Woman 


“You won’t expect justice even from yourself 
when you reach my age, Anne,” she said with a sigh. 

Anne still demurred about going. 

“ Why don’t you want to go? ” asked Netty, who 
had not then definitely made her discovery. “ Don’t 
you like Jimmy and Mr. Leigh? ” 

Anne colored and made an excuse. She wanted 
to work at a picture. 

“ Rot,” said Netty, robustly. 

In the end Anne gave way. She had often been 
before to the chambers in the Temple, but of late, 
with the wandering of her thoughts, reasons had 
been made plain to her why she should go there as 
little as possible. Anne, you see, was observant. 

She had still a heightened color when she followed 
her sisters, Netty and Barbara, into the omnibus, 
which the fact of living in a thoroughfare enabled 
the Norfolks to stop at their own door. 

“ Where’s Harry ? ” asked Abbot, when the girls 
presented themselves at his chambers. 

Netty made a long and glib statement of plausible 
excuse. Anne saw the face of Dennis fall, and she 
turned away her head. 

“ Too bad of Harry,” said Abbot. “ Tell her, with 
my love, Netty, that her regrets are very pretty, but 
that I am quite sure she could have come if she had 
liked.” 

The party settled themselves round the fire. A 


Time and the Woman 


161 


Kettle was .singing merrily, and presently an issue of 
steam came from its spout. Anne helped Dennis to 
make the tea, by which I mean that she held the 
brown earthenware teapot in one hand, and the lid 
of it in the other, while he poured in the boiling 
water. It made an indescribable sound. 

He put down the kettle and took the teapot from 
her, barely thanking her. His eyes were holden at 
this time. 

She began methodically to cut bread for toasting. 
Netty talked so much that she could do nothing 
else, and to have expected Barbara to help would 
have been to expect the unlikely. The twins had 
eyes with heavy lids and did nothing for themselves. 
Their indolence, which was partly natural and partly 
affected, had a real and physical expression in their 
cast of face. They spoke slowly with deep voices. 
They were like each other in appearance, and Bar- 
bara was representative. Their sloth was in Sloane 
Street pronounced to suit their type of beauty, and 
they were exempted from many of those small duties 
which developed upon the others. 

Anne and Jimmy knelt in front of the fire and 
made toast; Netty offered to help but did not 
move. Barbara looked on lazily and did nothing. 
Dennis was silent. After he had placed the teapot 
on the hob he sat down. Anne saw the grimness of 
his expression. It relaxed presently, and his normal 


162 


Time and the Woman 


geniality asserted itself. To mope for long was 
foreign to his nature. 

Abbot and Anne moved after a time from their 
kneeling positions. Their faces glowed from the 
heat of the fire, and Anne’s eyes sparkled. 

“ We’ve done our share, Anne,” said Jimmy. 
“ Some of the others must take a turn next.” 

“ I’m sure you have made plenty of toast,” said 
the lazy Barbara. She sniffed the air luxuriously. 
“ How good it smells ! ” 

She watched Dennis, who proceeded to butter it. 
Anne took off her hat and stood at the table. The 
firelight burnished her shining hair. 

“ Why, you have got a piano,” she said suddenly. 

“ I have been wondering what made the room 
look different from usual,” said Netty. “ When did 
you get it, Jimmy? ” 

“ Leigh’s piano, not mine,” said Abbot. “ Dennis, 
old chap, hurry up, we all want our tea.’ ; 

Anne went over to the instrument. 

“ Yes, try it, Miss Norfolk,” said Dennis, but 
Barbara protested. 

“ After we’ve had some tea,” she said, in the slow 
deep voice that gave to so many trite or common- 
place things a tone of tragedy. The twins’ voices 
were somewhat wasted upon them. 

Barbara made a hearty meal, slowly. Netty 
talked, and for some reason or other observed Anne, 
who was silent. Anne ate little. 


Time and the Woman 


163 


“ Now,’ksaid Leigh, when at last Barbara had re- 
fused anything more, and the toast had disappeared 
from the plate, “ now will you try the piano ? ” 

Anne rose at once. She did not speak, and she 
began Chopin’s Nocturne in E flat. Dennis had fol- 
lowed her to the piano. He stood beside it as she 
played. She became very pale. After a time the 
strain of the knowledge that his eyes were upon her 
became too severe, and she looked up. He was look- 
ing at her steadily, but she scarcely thought that he 
saw her. She played the piece to the end. 

Netty, the mischievous, continued to watch her, 
drawing the while her own conclusions. 

Dennis, thinking of Harry Norfolk, at whose 
suggestion he had acquired the piano, was deeply 
moved by the music. He said little. Abbot knew 
the effect which music had upon him, and hastened 
in a boisterous way to demand something less classic. 

“ Something down to our level, Anne. The Pas 
de what-you-call-it. Here, Netty, you and I will 
hop round.” 

Anne complied at once. She was a little bit 
alarmed by the passion which her playing had called 
up into Leigh’s face, and it was a relief to rattle 
from the notes the swinging tune that took London. 

Abbot pushed the table out of the way, and caught 
Netty by the hand. The two skipped round, Netty’s 
neat feet taking steps scarcely less precise than those 


164 


Time and the Woman 


of the dancing girl’s. The air and the motion were 
intoxicating. The indolent Barbara jumped up 
and called upon Dennis to dance. Then these four, 
full of their youth, and with spirits that rose in an- 
swer to the exuberance of the tune, hopped round 
till they were out of breath. 

When they were at last sitting in different parts 
of the room, and fanning themselves with their 
pocket-handkerchiefs or with newspapers, Anne left 
the piano. 

Barbara said it was time to go, and did not move. 
Netty said that she supposed so too, but kept her 
place. Abbot and Leigh protested that there was 
no hurry. 

“ You must tdl Harry,” said Abbot, “ that we 
have had our ball this afternoon.” 

Anne looked at Dennis apprehensively, and then 
she took up the current copy of the Bachelor , which 
chanced to be lying on the table. She looked for 
such articles as bore the initials D. L. Her eye 
fell upon some verses. They were unsigned. Dennis 
happened to be near her as she read them. They 
were a love song. She looked from them to Den- 
nis, and knew that he had written them. Netty read 
them over her shoulder and guessed the same thing, 
and when that night she found Anne with a copy of 
the paper which she had bought, crying over them in 
her own room, she made the discovery which she 
boldly proclaimed the following day. 


Time and the Woman 


165 


CHAPTER XIV, 

Araby had an uneventful and cold journey during 
which she read when she was tired of looking out 
at the white country, and looked out again at the 
snow when she was tired of reading. She cried too 
a little when she had the carriage to herself, and 
thoughts of Gerald assailed her. 

The guard came at intervals and saw that she was 
comfortable. He brought sandwiches to her, and he 
had the foot-warmer changed for her. She slept 
sometimes and she dreamed disturbingly. There was 
little indeed to distract her. She had fellow-travel- 
ers intermittently, but none of them aroused in her 
the smallest interest. A large woman with an in- 
finitesimal dog with an aggressively shrill bark bored 
her. She speculated a little, but with no keenness, as 
to a young couple with new luggage. Three old men 
with black bands on their hats and black gloves ap- 
peared to have made up a party to go to a funeral. 
They called it the “ interment/’ and they talked about 
it a good deal, and Araby was relieved when they left 
the carriage. 

The evening closed in. Lights occasionally dotted 


166 


Time and the Woman 


the white country. Fields and hedges and trees 
looked desolate. The cold increased, and after a 
time the damp upon the windows froze itself into 
patterns of ferns and leaves which effectually ob- 
scured the passing landscape. 

Araby was asleep at the moment of the train’s ar- 
rival at the station for Eccram, and she started to her 
feet as the lights flashed past the carriage windows. 
She was stiff and cold, and for once the sight of the 
familiar platform awoke in her no feelings of wel- 
come recognition. The Eccram carriage was waiting 
for her. The coachman grinned all over his face as 
he touched his hat and respectfully greeted her. 

During the drive to the house Araby tried hard 
to experience some of the joy with which in thought 
she had associated a return to the home of her 
childhood. She knew every yard of the road, and in 
the whiteness of the winter night she distinguished 
all the old landmarks. It was useless. Her heart 
was in London, and she wondered how she should 
get through her days. 

“ It will be all right when I see Aunt Laura and 
Aunt Clara,” she told herself. 

They met her as she expected in the hall. The 
welcome was so genuine and so warm that some- 
thing of comfort was conveyed to her. They were 
gaunt women with good hearts and high cheek- 
bones. Neither of them looked as if she had ever 


Time and the Woman 


167 


been young. Araby, indeed, who had lived with 
them from her earliest days, had never known them 
to change. They were examples of permanent 
middle age. They dressed in a way that denoted 
a certain type of feminine mind, following the 
fashions with timidity and at a respectful distance. 

Like a soldier under arrest Araby was escorted 
between them into the dining-room, where the huge 
fire that threw shafts of flickering light upon the 
walls made her suddenly conscious of how cold she 
was physically. She ran to the hearth and knelt 
down upon the fur rug and stretched out her hands 
to the blaze. The warmth and the brightness cheered 
her. She felt a wish to purr like the cat that lay 
curled up on the bearskin beside her. Incidently she 
realized the want of that form of exquisite ex- 
pression. 

The aunts were talking to her the while singly 
and in chorus. Would she like to go to her room 
and take off her coat and her hat before her supper 
or afterwards? 

She roused herself with an effort. The glow 
of the hearth, which made her fingers to tingle 
deliciously, was lulling her to a delightful state of 
languor. London with all that it held was forgotten 
in the enchantment of pleasure bodily sensation. 
The world was herself, the fire, and the purring cat. 
She laid her face luxuriously for a moment against 


168 


Time and the Woman 


the animal’s coat. It was soft, thick, silky, and hot. 
Then she rose to her feet. 

“ The old room ? ” she said. “ My little blue 
room ? ” 

“ Yes, dear. Your own room. We thought you 
would like that. It is just as you left it.” 

Simultaneously the eyes of the aunts filled with 
tears. No one but they themselves knew what it had 
been to them to lose Araby. 

“ I hope you are a little bit glad to come back,” 
one of them said. 

Araby’s heart smote her. She threw her arms 
round the speaker’s neck. 

“ Glad ! ” she said, “ glad ! Oh, my dear aunt 
Laura, don’t you know that I am glad ? ” 

When she had gone up to her room the two 
ladies were silent for a few moments. Each waited 
for the other to speak. Laura, the younger, at last 
said, 

“ Well?” 

That loosed her sister’s tongue. 

“ Did you think her pale ? — paler than she used 
to be?” 

“ Her journey .... the coid ” 

“Would account for that partly. Perhaps. 
Yes.” 

There was silence again. Miss Wootton changed 
her position somewhat, and opened her mouth to 


Time and the Woman 


169 


speak. Her sister looked at her, and she closed her 
lips. 

The butler came in to know whether he should 
bring in Araby’s supper. 

“We will ring,” said Miss Wootton. “ Miss 
Araby has gone to her room.” 

The servant withdrew, and there was again 
silence. 

“ She is as pretty as ever,” said Miss Laura 
then. “ Prettier. She has filled out. She is no 
longer a child. Perhaps that is it.” 

“ Is what, Laura ? Do you see any alteration 
in her?” 

“ Yes, I do.” 

The two sisters exchanged glances, and there 
was again silence. Miss Wootton broke it. 

“ Did you — did you miss something from her 
manner, Laura ? ” 

“ I shouldn’t like to say that. But there is 
some change. You see it yourself, Clara. Do you 
think that she isn’t happy ? ” 

“ What are you thinking, Laura ? Do speak 
straight out. You are beating about the bush.” 

“ We are thinking the same thing,” said Miss 
Laura then, “ you and I ; we are both thinking the 
same thing. We are wondering whether Corbet's, 
wife is a good mother.” 

“ Hush,” said Miss Wootton, “ hush ! ” 


170 


Time and the Woman 


Miss Laura gave her head a little toss, and 
in the silence that ensued, during which the sisters 
sat staring into the fire, Araby came into the room. 
She went over and knelt on the rug between them, 
and each took possession of one of her hands. 

She began to know now that she was hungry, 
and when she was comfortably seated at the table, 
she found herself able to do full justice to the hot 
and tempting dishes that had been prepared for her. 
The food of which she had been really in need after 
her cold journey, and perhaps the port which her 
aunts insisted that she should drink, did much to 
raise her spirits. After Araby was refreshed the 
Miss Woottons led her to the drawing-room. 

This was a room which belonged to the worsted- 
work period. Here they talked till the striking of a 
clock warned them of the lateness of the hour; and 
when the three parted for the night, the aunts 
wondered whether after all they might not have been 
mistaken in ascribing any change to the girl who had 
left them, and had now for a time returned to them. 

But long after their eyes had closed in sleep Araby 
sat before the fire in her room and thought. Some- 
times as she looked round at the familiar blue walls, 
and the hundred well-known objects about her, she 
felt as if she had never been away from Eccram in 
her life, and that London and her mother and — and 
other people, must belong to a dream from which she 


Time and the Woman 


171 


had just awoke. Then, as she looked, she found the 
pictures which she had once admired crude and 
philistine, and she constrasted the comfortable but 
ugly worsted-work drawing-room with the rooms in 
Primate Street, and with such other modern rooms 
as she had seen in London, and she felt that, like 
Eve, she had eaten of the Tree of knowledge of good 
and evil, and that for her the old conditions were 
impossible. She shuddered as she looked at the 
books on her shelves, at an illumination in an Oxford 
frame that hung over her bed. 

She went to the window and drew aside the cur- 
tains. The trees were etched against the white 
of the snow in firm black lines. Araby could see 
single twigs. She could see the tower of Eccram 
Church, and the gables near it of the Vicarage. 
She thought of Herbert Pine, and wondered whether 
he was at home; and then she drifted back upon 
attendant memories connected with skating, to Lon- 
don and to Gerald, and to her mother and to her 
own unhappiness. They were dancing now in 
Barn Street. Who was dancing with Gerald? she 
wondered. What were the waltzes that would be 
played? She threw herself with intenseness of 
purpose into an attempt to realize the night as it was 
passing at the George Athols’. She lived through 
a part of this ball in imagination. She tried to 
smell the flowers that would decorate the stairs and 


172 Time and the Woman 

the rooms, and to see the men and women passing 
to and fro. Gerald was dancing or was not danc- 
ing. He was talking to a dark girl or to a fair girl. 
He was at supper perhaps now. She looked at her 
watch. It was half-past twelve. 

The fire was falling low in the grate. The house 
was silent. The hush of the country after the 
rumble of London smote her with a fresh regret. 
She sighed, and began to undress. When at length 
she was ready to get into bed a curious impulse 
made her draw her nightdress down, and gaze 
in the glass at her white neck and arms. She was 
splendidly white, and so prettily rounded that she 
smiled with pleasure at her beauty. 

She sighed again, and got into bed. The fire- 
light had ceased to flicker on the blue walls, and 
the dead embers were ceasing even to crack softly in 
the grate, when at length Araby fell asleep, and 
tears were lying like dewdrops upon her eye- 
lashes. 


Time and the Woman 


173 


CHAPTER XV. 

Eccram was a moderately large house standing 
in a few acres of park, which with the gardens at 
the back comprised the estate. There were no 
farms or lands, pasture or otherwise, and it was for 
the compactness of the place that thirty years ago 
the Miss Woottons, entering on their permanent 
middle age at a time when other women are still 
girls, had bought it, to live in it their kindly and 
monotonous lives. 

They had furnished it massively in the taste of 
the time. The dining-room, comfortable, substan- 
tial, and handsome, had suffered least in a decade 
remarkable for its lack of artistic appreciation. It 
was hung with engraved portraits of our Royal 
Family. The drawing-room, a room the shape of 
which was full of possibilities, labored as we know 
at disadvantage under a weight of worsted-work 
and antimacassars. It had a round table in the 
middle, with a cloth of crimson velvet pile, on which 
were ranged books, a paper-knife, a stereoscope 
with views of Switzerland and Northern Italy (the 
memento of a foreign tour), and two albums con- 


174 


Time and the Woman 


taining photographs of people of those varying 
forms of ugliness that are in part at least due to 
the fashions of a time when women called Clara 
and Laura were girls, and men were spoken of as 
the gentlemen. On a marble-topped book-case a 
stuffed kingfisher dived into a little pool of looking- 
glass; and there were other abominations of the 
kind. There were some comfortable chairs; there 
were two prim sofas, and there were hard cushions 
worked with beads or wool and ornamented with 
tassels and fringes. There were stools too, little 
round things, six inches high, upon which human 
foot had never been known to rest. There was a 
carpet with a huge pattern of vases overflowing 
with roses. There was a glass chandelier for 
candles. There were also candlesticks with crystal 
drops. There was a grand piano which was locked, 
and a music-stool shaped like a square hour-glass, 
and worked in worsted. There was an ottoman 
which opened up and disclosed a chest. There was 
a marble mantelpiece, and a worked screen upon 
a folding gilt rod screwed on to one side of it. 
There were many other ornaments dating alike 
from the Stone Age of decoration. 

The house itself, built of red brick, low-roofed, 
and with a square porch, was old and delightful. 
It had crooked oak-stairs, with elaborately carved 
balustrades. You went up a couple of steps into 


Time and the Woman 


175 


some of the rooms, you went down into others. 
You were surprised at every corner. But the 
eternal feminine evinced itself in all the appoint- 
ments, and Araby, who up to a few months back 
had lived there for nearly fourteen years, now, after 
a brief interval, became conscious of it. She won- 
dered that she had never contrasted the prim lady- 
like equipments of the rooms with those of such 
other country houses as she had seen. 

Her aunts’ shady hats hanging on pegs of the 
hat-rack in the hall, the croquet set under the table, 
the large looking-glasses in gold frames, all struck 
her with a sense of pity for the cramped lives of 
their owners. The very servants seemed to date 
as servants from times remote. There was a house- 
maid with stiff joints and a set of false teeth, which 
when she smiled reminded Araby of the keyboard 
of a piano. The butler was self-willed and rheu- 
matic. The cook had confessed to sixty in the re- 
cent census. Everywhere indoors was an atmos- 
phere of sedate middle age, and to her own alarm, 
A in the present state of transition of her mind, Araby 
realized it, and wondered how she had breathed it 
for so long. 

She woke on the morning after her arrival with 
the sense of something having happened, and look- 
ing drowsily at the blue walls of her room, she won- 
dered at the color. Her room in Primate Street 


176 


Time and the Woman 


was pink. Then of a sudden the dead silence of the 
country struck her, and she started up and remem- 
bered that she was no longer in London. After that 
she lay down and allowed her thoughts to wander. 
The sight of the frozen window, on which the palest 
rays of a winter sun were glistening till the mar- 
velous patterns seemed wrought in powdered dia- 
monds, made the warmth of the fine white sheets the 
more grateful, and a delightful sense of ease and 
rest stole over her. She thought of the false Gerald 
without pain. Nothing mattered. The stiff house- 
maid with the keyboard smile came in to light her 
fire, and Araby woke fully, and knew that she had 
been banished to Eccram, and that she was mis- 
erable. Then the word banished in connection with 
the kind aunts and her home smote her with re- 
morse, and she was contrite. 

When at length she went down to the dining- 
room she found the aunts at breakfast. They were 
full of gentle goodness in a minor key. They would 
not have her called earlier, they said, but they were 
sure that she would excuse them for having begun 
without her. 

“ But of course, dear Aunt Laura,” she said 
smiling. She was* a little bit shocked once more 
when their politeness struck her as elaborate and 
effete. 

“ They are so good,” she said to herself, “ and 
oh, I am horrid ! ” 


Time and the Woman 177 

In spite of herself she criticised them. Their 
figures were so flat, and they wore elastic-sided 
boots with shining toe-caps. 

“ I am horrid,” she said to herself again. 

They noted the smallness of her appetite. They 
thought her graver than of old, and more reserved. 
They exchanged glances. She found herself silent 
and out of touch with such subjects as interested 
them. She scarcely knew it, but she was shy. 
They lived in a different world from that in which 
her lines were now cast, and she had forgotten the 
simplicity that had been hers when her own life had 
been bound up with theirs. She was stricken with 
pity — and with a sense of shame that it should be 
so — for these two women who had grown old dully, 
and whose lives ran in so narrow and straight a 
grove. She felt herself a hypocrite when even by 
the assent of silence she appeared to agree with one 
or other of them upon such points of doctrine or 
demeanor as came up in the ordinary course of con- 
versation. The old order changes, and she had 
changed with it, and once more she felt that the 
former conditions were impossible. It was curious 
how in so short a time, and insensibly, her ideas and 
yiews had widened. 

After breakfast a dull morning threatened. 
Araby loitered undecidedly in the hall. She went 
to the window and looked out across the white park. 


178 


Time and the Woman 


A few rooks were walking about on the drive. The 
black of them struck an insistent note against the 
snow. They came up close to the house, and looked 
to Araby of abnormal size. She fetched some bread 
and tried to interest herself in feeding them. Miss 
Wootton came out of the library. 

“ What would you like to do, my dear ? Wouldn’t 
you like to go out? I wish we had anything to 
amuse you. I think they are skating on the park 
pond, if you would like to go down and see.” 

Laura Wootton had followed her sister into the 
hall. She came and stood on Araby’s other side. 
She wore mittens, and her fingers were pink with 
the cold of the day. Araby was disinclined for any- 
thing, but felt that in action only would she find 
rest from her thoughts. She hailed the suggestion 
of her aunt with alacrity. 

“ You will find friends down there, dear,” said 
Miss Wootton. “ I saw Herbert and Cora Pine 
skating yesterday.” 

Araby went to her room, and whether the men- 
tion of the young soldier’s name was accountable 
for it or not, she descended presently thence wearing 
one of her prettiest hats. She fastened her coat as 
she came. Her skates swung by the straps over 
her arm, and made a pleasant clicking sound as the 
blades struck gently together. 

So keen and frosty an air met her as she left the 


Time and the Woman 


179 


house that her cheeks glowed in answer to it. The 
frozen snow gave crisply under her feet and made 
a sound that pleased her. Her spirits rose. She 
began to run, and then fell back into a walk. 

Eccram stood on high ground, with a dip at the 
end of the park whence the country stretched itself 
for square miles with the flatness of a map. In the 
clearness of the day Araby could see the hedges that 
made a hundred fields into a huge chessboard. She 
saw farm-houses and the spire here and there of a 
church. Behind all and over all, and at the edge 
it seemed of the world, was a sky of turquoise blue, 
banked towards the west with fleecy white clouds 
ranged in rounded shelves one above another. 
These meant snow. They were dazzling in the pure 
sunlight. 

Presently she was reminded of Wimbledon, her 
mother, Gerald, and her unhappiness by the sound 
of blades ringing on the ice. She gave a gesture of 
impatience and quickened her pace. 

Herbert Pine was disporting himself fantastically 
upon his skates. Five minutes later Araby had 
flung care to the winds and was swinging through 
the air beside him. She talked and she laughed. 
He listened to her in surprise and tried to under- 
stand her, with the result that he became more than 
ever in love with her. Araby saw what she was do- 
ing and was reckless. 


180 


Time and the Woman 


“ Nothing matters,” she said to him with young 
cynicism, in answer to some remark of his, “ noth- 
ing matters — nothing, nothing, nothing.” 

He looked at her curiously. Woolwich was 
knocking his lankiness into shape, and barmaids had 
told him that he had wicked eyes. His manner at 
home was less deprecating than of old, and he 
had told his sister that there was hardly a girl worth 
speaking to in the county. Cora Pine had tossed her 
head at the time, but she had not failed to proclaim 
proudly amongst her bosom friends the sweeping 
assertion of her tall brother. She might have chuck- 
led if she could have heard his deference to Araby. 

“ One learns that in London,” he said, with an 
attempt at his grander manner. 

He was feeling somehow that Araby, though she 
talked to him incessantly and skated with no one 
else, took him pretty much as she had left him, and 
scarcely realized his importance. This served but 
the' more to increase his infatuation. He stored up 
much restlessness for himself that day upon the ice 
of the park pond. 

The Pines had brought down luncheon with them 
and begged Araby to share it. She accepted their 
invitation, and despatched a lad up to the house with 
a message. A thousand things reminded her of the 
other skating party and of Gerald, and for solace 
she devoted herself to the conquest of a boy in whom 


Time and the Woman 181 

she could now barely interest herself. He walked 
home with her through the crisp snow in the red 
sunset. He became sentimental and talked bitterly. 
At the door he stood still. 

“ Will you come in? ” 

He had been wondering all the way from the ice 
whether or not she would ask this, and whether or 
not he should consent. But he was in a mood when 
parting had an attraction for him. 

“ No, I won’t come in,” he said without a smile, 
and then he added “ Thank you,” as an after- 
thought. 

He was silent for a few moments and Araby put 
out her hand. There seemed nothing to wait for, 
but she knew that he wished to detain her. 

“ Oh, don’t go,” he said hurriedly. 

“ Why not ? ” said Araby with a smile. He saw 
the red sunlight striking her flaming hair, as Gerald 
had seen it, and much the same thoughts occurred 
to him, but he could not express them. 

“ Good-bye,” said Araby, still smiling. 

“ And to-morrow,” said Pine, “ to-morrow ? ” 

“ Oh, to-morrow,” said Araby lightly, “ to-mor- 
row, who can tell? It may thaw. This frost can’t 
last for ever. I am not sure that I even want it to 
last.” 

Herbert Pine tapped the snow with his boot. 

“ It won’t thaw to-night,” he said. 


182 


Time and the Woman 


Araby shivered and drew her coat more closely 
across her chest. What a smart coat, he thought. 
It was plain as a man’s. How slight and supple was 
the figure that was clothed so neatly. 

“Now I must go,” she said. She put out her 
hand once more. 

“If it doesn’t thaw,” he said humbly, “ and it 
will not ” 

“ But to-morrow I may not want to skate,” she 
said. “ I cannot tell. It may not be necessary.” 

“ Necessary? ” 

But she did not explain. 


Time and the Woman 


183 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Gerald Ventnor meanwhile continued to won- 
der many things. Something was puzzling him in 
these days, and troubling him too. He was not of a 
type that is impressionable. His amusements, which 
were many, had hitherto sufficed to make life of suf- 
ficient interest to him to be worth the living — not, be 
it said, by the way, that one is given much choice in 
the matter: one is born, and one is. The lot of 
Gerald, however, was not hard, and he invariably 
made and got the best of it. 

By the generosity of his father he was not 
cramped for means. Sir John, who was one of the 
members for his county, and was interested in little 
that did not directly concern politics, was a rich 
man, and treated his family with the utmost liber- 
ality. He had wished that his son also should dis- 
tinguish himself in Parliament, but when he found 
that Gerald’s taste did not lie in that direction he did 
not press his point, nor did he vent upon him such 
disappointment as he may have felt. 

That Gerald followed a profession of idleness 
was due then to prosperous circumstance. Still he 


184 


Time and the Woman 


did not waste his life. He was indolent perhaps in 
London, and during a winter in which he was de- 
barred from hunting at home by a prolonged frost, 
and the fact that the Combe Lecton stables were in 
an unsatisfactory condition. He was a keen rider, 
and he cared more for a good run than for anything 
else in the world. He was an average shot, and he 
did not fish. The country was full of delights for 
him. People who met him casually in town, and to 
whom a certain absence of enthusiasm seemed a 
characteristic that made perhaps part of his perverse 
charm, would have been surprised to know the ef- 
fect produced upon him by the gorgeous tints of 
autumn woods, the silver mist of a spring morning, 
the dull red of a sunset. Those negative qualities of 
his manner had an attraction that might be hard to 
define but that was sufficiently potent. They were 
unassumed, but they belied him. He was often less 
indifferent than he appeared. That he made his 
friends involuntarily is true, and that in the matter 
of affection he got perhaps far more than he gave. 
This had happened even in his Eton days, when he 
had been the Steerforth of many a Copperfield. 
Still if he did not return in measure the love of his 
fellows he appreciated it, and it made him happy. 
With men he was always popular. Women were 
attracted by something which they did not under- 
stand, and after trying to fathom it they em 


Time and the Woman 185 

deavored sometimes to persuade themselves that 
they did not like him. 

Miss Norfolk had never attempted so to deceive 
herself. She had recognized in early days that he 
was out of her reach. Rightly or wrongly the im- 
pression was strong upon her that he had read her 
from the first, and that the smile in which she 
vaguely felt that he had summed her up was some- 
how an epigram. This piqued her in the beginning, 
though it did not prevent a certain friendship from 
existing between him and herself. She watched 
him, and presently she shrugged her shoulders and 
contented herself with smaller game. 

Of his own family his sister perhaps knew him 
best. 

“ Nothing seems to touch Gerald,” she said to 
Maud Athol, “ but with Gerald you can’t go by ap- 
pearances. People get much nearer to him than 
they think. If I thought that he was really as in- 
different as he sometimes looks, I should suffer for 
his friends and for myself. You know Archie New- 
port who was engaged to Miss Runton? — well, Ger- 
ald and he were at Oxford together and they were 
friends. Men’s friendships are stronger than ours, 
Maud. Mr. Newport was in great trouble when 
Miss Runton threw him up, and I think he used to 
tell Gerald about it. One day I heard them talking. 
I was in the room, and they did not know that I was 


186 


Time and the Woman 


there, and something, I forget what, prevented my 
telling them or getting away. Mr. Newport said 
something about wasted affection. He said some- 
thing about its being always one-sided — the ‘ un qui 
aime, et un qui se laisse aimer’ theory, and a little 
bitterly he instanced his friendship with Gerald. 
Gerald just looked at him and put his hand on his 
shoulder. ,, 

Maud Athol’s eyes were very bright. She and 
Gerald were themselves good friends, too good, she 
thought they had tacitly agreed, to risk matrimony. 
Still Miss Athol was one of the few girls with whom 
Gerald could have contemplated linking his fate, and 
when Bobby Newton came along from Texas, and 
an engagement was announced in Barn Street, 
Gerald, though he said nothing of the state of his 
feelings to Newport, who had confided in him, and 
though he gave his congratulations heartily, slept 
little that night, and Miss Ventnor, noting his silence 
in the morning, drew a further conclusion of her 
own. 

Gerald was in no hurry to marry. Beyond the 
disappointment, such as it was, of having let Maud 
Athol slip, he devoted few thoughts at all to subjects 
connected with marriage. He rejoiced with Newport 
when Miss Runton recalled him. His friends and his 
sports filled his life. He met and became interested 
in Mrs. Ruthven. For her he moved back somewhat 


Time and the Woman 


187 


the barriers which almost unconsciously he placed 
round himself. He talked to her frankly, or he was 
silent and listened to her. But he was never silent 
without listening, which was a complaint that other 
people often made against him. 

Joan Vincent, Maud Athol’s sister, said of him 
at Lady George’s dance in Barn Street — “ He sits 
on the stairs with one — you can hardly ever get 
him to dance — and one has to talk to him and I 
don’t believe he hears a word you say.” Mrs. 
Vincent had a trick of mixing her pronouns. Maud 
Athol’s marriage with Bobby Newton was approach- 
ing, and she was very happy. She smiled at the 
knowledge that Gerald always talked to her. Joan 
Vincent wondered why she smiled. 

On Maud Athol then, though she but vaguely 
guessed it, and he was hardly aware of it till it 
was too late, had Gerald’s affections been disposed 
to rest. When the coming of Newton had shown 
him that she was not for him, he did not by any 
means give himself up to what used to be called 
repining, but he was a little more susceptible to 
the influence of women than before. His interest 
in Mrs. Ruthven may or may not have been trace- 
able to this. He placed her upon no imaginary 
pedestal. He took her as she appeared, and ap- 
pearance, as we know, was her strong point. It 
was lately that he had begun to wonder and to 


188 


Time and the Woman 


speculate, and the root of his wonderings and his 
speculation was — Araby. 

So long as he had supposed that she was the 
nonentity and the impossibility which her mother, 
without saying it in so many words, had somehow 
represented her, he thought little on the matter. 
Mrs. Ruthven did not talk much of her daughter. A 
less clever woman would have talked more. She 
worked subtly. 

So in the beginning, and in point of actual time 
that was a very few months back, Gerald had 
passed over Araby. He thought now that his eyes 
had been holden. Her beauty had been a revelation 
to him. He had always admired her as one may 
admire that which one has not studied; but a full 
realization of her charm had been withheld from 
him till that moment when, almost involuntarily, he 
had given voice to the thoughts which possessed him, 
as he saw her standing in the red sunset light of 
which her flaming hair seemed itself a part. He saw 
her many times thus in the days that followed. 
Another impression of her that was often present 
with him was that of her face as he had seen it on 
the day when he had met her on the white landing 
outside the drawing-room door in Primate Street, 
and another that of her supple and slender form 
sitting at the piano, as she sang. He remembered 
the line of her throat, of her head as the face was 
raised in singing. 


Time and the Woman 


189 


He heard of the going of Araby with far more 
disappointment than was at all apparent, and Mrs. 
Ruthven did more wisely even than she herself 
knew in not choosing that moment for telling him 
of her misstatement to her daughter. He would not 
have pardoned it just then. 

He was silent in the carriage going home. Miss 
.Ventnor talked all the way. 

“ The Norfolk girl will secure the Hartford boy 
with patience/' she said, amongst other things. 

Gerald’s mouth relaxed to a smile. 

He said laconically that whenever that happened 
Miss Norfolk might take the rest which she had so 
conscientiously earned. Then he lapsed once more 
into silence, and Lennox Gardens was reached. 

A fire was burning brightly in the smoking-room. 
Gerald threw himself into an easy-chair beside it 
and lit a cigar. He stretched out his arm for the 
square bottle that stood on a table at hand. Then 
he proceeded leisurely to open a bottle of soda- 
water. Miss Ventnor, with apprehensive eyebrows, 
stood by the hearth till he had successfully accom- 
plished this, and then she pulled a stool on to the 
rug and sat at his feet with her head against his 
knee. 

“ Gerald.” 

“ Yes, dear.” 

“ Why didn’t Mrs. Ruthven bring her daughter 
to-night ? ” 


190 


Time and the Woman 


“ Probably because mother hasn't been too civil.” 

“ Mother shall call to-morrow or the day after," 
said Miss Ventnor. “ But I didn’t mean to dinner.” 

There was silence, and she held her glass up, 
and looked at the fire through the pale amber 
liquid. 

“ I meant to the ball — that was different. And she 
went herself. Was it really because Miss Ruthven 
is barely out ? ” 

“ I don’t know, Gwen.” 

There Was another silence. Ventnor watched the 
blue smoke that rose from his cigar, and his sister 
looked into the fire. 

“ What a nice girl she is ! ” she said presently, 
and without removing her eyes from the glowing 
coals. “ What a sweet face ! I never knew how 
beautiful that flaming hair could be till I saw her. 
And, Gerald, her eyes! They are a sort of golden 
color, like the eyes of that yellow collie Mr. Newport 
had. I think her lovely. Gerald, I took the most 
enormous fancy to her. What are you smiling at? ” 

Gerald was thinking of all the other girls whom 
his sister had thought lovely, but he did not explain. 

Miss Ventnor continued to be enthusiastic about 
Araby for some minutes, at the end of which she 
emptied her glass, and made a little grimace. 

“ I think whiskey is horrid. Good-night.” 

She put her face down to his to be kissed. 


Time and the Woman 


191 


“ Gerald ! ” 

She turned back from the door and advanced 
into the middle of the room. 

“ Well? ” 

“ Do you think Mrs. Ruthven is — is fond of her 
daughter ? ” 

Gerald did not answer, and Miss Ventnor 
lingered undecidedly. She looked at her brother 
and read nothing from his face. She made as if 
she would have added something further, and then 
she appeared to change her mind, and said “ Good- 
night ” abruptly. 

“ Good-night,” said Gerald. He smiled absently 
when the door had closed behind her. 


192 


Time and the Woman 


CHAPTER XVII, 

He sat on for a long time thinking. 

Presently he found that his cigar had gone out, 
and he lit another. There was a deliberation in his 
vigil, for he threw a log upon the fire, and drew his 
chair nearer to the fender. What a cold night it 
was! There were poor devils wandering about 
London now without a roof to cover them. He 
shuddered, and determined to double his subscrip- 
tions to such philanthropic societies as cared for the 
physical wants of the destitute. It was a night for 
charitable inclinations and intentions. 

Then came fugitive thoughts of the George 
Athols ; of Mrs. Ruthven’s emerald ring which had 
attracted his attention when she drew off her glove 
at supper; of the Norfolk girl on what her sister 
called the Hartford chase; of Gwen; and then his 
thoughts steadied themselves to a definite line and 
marked Araby. He felt somehow that he had been 
cheated out of the pleasure he had been anticipating 
in the evening that was over. And he fancied that 
Araby had been cheated too. He had been present 
at the invitation. He remembered how Araby’s 



“How is Mrs. Ruthven?” he asked, presently 

















































• * 



























Time and the Woman 


193 


eyes had glowed with prospective enjoyment, and he 
wondered what had happened between then and 
later to have caused what was obviously sudden, and 
a change of plans. Mrs. Ruthven’s manner at sup- 
per had somehow puzzled him. He wondered how 
his hurried visit to St. James's Hall had come to her 
knowledge. He remembered then something that 
Araby had said to him as he put her into the cab. 
She had asked him whether her mother knew of his 
coming, and when he had said that it was not so, she 
had begged him to return to the theatre with all 
possible speed. She had even, he thought, shown 
some apprehension as to the consequences of his act. 
This at least was his impression. 

He thought over these things, till the conviction 
was strong within him that in some way Araby’s 
going was connected with the trifling incident of that 
evening. 

The immediate result of thinking over the situa- 
tion was, that Gerald in the course of the next day 
or two found himself so restless and perplexed that 
he determined to leave town. There were plenty of 
country houses open to him. He had been refusing 
invitations lately, because just then London seemed 
as good a place to be in as any other. His sister 
thought him uncommunicative. Lady Ventnor, with 
the air of a martyr, had duly called upon Mrs. 
Ruthven, and when Gwen told him of the visit, he 
seemed to her indifferent. 


194 


Time and the Woman 


“ You would have laughed if you could have seen 
mamma,” said Miss Ventnor, chuckling a little over 
her recollections. “ She grumbled all the way, and 
abused everybody — Mrs. Sandon and you and me, 
and Audrey for letting her house — and then when 
she met Mrs. Ruthven she gushed — positively 
gushed. You know mamma’s empresse manner. 
And I am sure Mrs. Ruthven must have thought 
her charming.” 

Gerald said that he was glad that his mother 
had been civil. 

“ But it wasn’t from motives of civility,” said 
Miss Ventnor, still chuckling. “ It was pure in- 
sincerity. Mamma is inherently insincere.” 

Gerald smiled absently, and his sister, who did not 
altogether dislike the sound of Miss Ventnor’s voice, 
began to speculate idly as to when this inherited trait 
would break out in herself. She arrived at no very 
definite conclusions. Gerald did not appear to regard 
the subject as one of any importance, to judge by his 
preoccupied look, and Miss Ventnor subsided into 
silence. 

He went round to Primate Street on the day 
before his departure. 

“And for how long?” said Mrs. Ruthven, when 
he had informed her that he was leaving London. 
She looked at him intently for a few moments, and 
noted many trivial things. 


Time and the Woman 


195 


He enumerated a few of the houses he was 
going to visit. 

“ Then you will be away a month.” 

“ Quite that — perhaps two.” 

“ This is a change of plan, isn’t it ? ” 

“ I generally make up my mind suddenly. I like 
to be free.” 

She looked at him again. 

“ What is it about you? You are not like your- 
self to-day. You are different ” 

It struck her that “ indifferent ” would have ex- 
pressed her meaning just as well. 

Gerald did not refute the charge with any alacrity. 
He was not of the type of man who hastens to fill 
a silence. Pauses did not embarrass him. 

“ How is Miss Ruthven?” he asked, presently. 
There was nothing in the tone in which he spoke 
to have told that the subject was one of any 
particular interest to him. 

“ Araby! — oh, Araby is very well.” 

So the talk languished. Mrs. Ruthven, with" 
alarm, realized that something of her hold over 
Gerald was gone. Gerald was not less conscious 
of this, and the situation was strained. 

He rose at length to go. 

“ Good-bye,” said Mrs. Ruthven. “ Good-bye. 
I hope you will have a good time. When you have 
nothing better to do, you might write me a line to 
say how the world goes with you.” 


196 


Time and the Woman 


When the drawing-room door closed behind him, 
she went and stood by the lire. The flames leapt 
cheerily, and were reflected in the hot tiles. But 
to the woman who leant against the mantelpiece, 
and whose face wore a smile that was more grim 
than a frown and more sad than tears, the hearth 
and her own heart and life seemed full of ashes. 

Gerald met Olympe on the stairs. She held some 
pieces of glass and a broken frame. Gerald nodded 
to her. 

“ An accident, Mile. Olympe ? ” 

“An accident, for example, monsieur. Je crois 
bien. I take up Miss Araby to clean the frame, 
and my ’ans are so cold, I let fall.” 

Gerald saw that the broken frame held a photo- 
graph of Araby. 

“ The glass — that is nothing. I get another for 
a few sous. But the silver is bent and a — what you 
call, a screw — a rivet — is missing. Well, no matter. 
It can’t be ’elped. I take it to the shop.” 

“ Let me see,” said Gerald, but he looked at the 
picture, not the frame. 

It seemed to him that he had found Araby once 
more. It was his fancy that the eyes were reproach- 
ful. 

“ Shall I get it mended for you, Mile. Olympe ? ” 

“ Oh, monsieur ! ” 

“ I know a man in Sloane Street who would do 


Time and the Woman 


197 


it,” said Gerald. “ It is a small thing. He will make 
it as good as new. The silver can easily be 
straightened.’’ 

“ You are too good, monsieur. It is too much 
to trouble you ” 

“ It is no trouble,” said Gerald. “ I pass the shop 
on my way home.” 

“ Thank you, monsieur, a thousand times. Let 


“ What are you going to do ? ” 

“ I remove the photograph. I make you less to 
carry.” 

“ Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” said Gerald. 

“ Bien, monsieur.” 

Her twinkling eyes met his, and became suddenly 
grave. 

“ Miss Araby was sorry to go,” she said, abruptly. 
The butler came up to whistle for a hansom, and 
Olympe with large hips and light tread tripped up- 
stairs. 


198 


Time and the Woman 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Gerald Ventnor spent a fortnight in Leicester- 
shire, a week in Hampshire, a few days in Essex, 
and heard nothing of the Ruthvens. He kept 
Araby’s photograph till the frame was mended, and 
by that time he knew that he was in love with her, 
and that he meant it. 

It was grudgingly even then that he parted with 
the picture. It seemed to him that in studying it he 
was getting to know the girl herself better. He dis- 
covered fresh beauties in it every day. He looked 
at it till he almost fancied he had called up an answer 
into the eyes, as devout Catholics have adored images 
of the Virgin till in an ecstacy of devotion they have 
imagined miraculous signs from the inanimate 
wood or stone. Gerald in love was a new Gerald, but 
with something of the same Gerald still. It was 
enough for him that he knew that he loved Araby, 
He was able to feed upon his own love for her, and 
he was beset by no fever of impatince to declare 
himself. He preferred indeed to have a time in 
which to think of her and of the future. For this he 
had no fears. What was there indeed to fear? Lady 


Time and the Woman 


199 


Ventnor, of course, since she distrusted all girls, and 
suffered acutely by reason of her fear that her son 
would be entrapped by the designing, would raise her 
voice in woe; but it was a voice to which little heed 
was paid, either in Lennox Gardens or at Combe 
Lecton; and Sir John, master of his own house, 
was in favor of early marriages. There was no 
reason to dread obstacles. 

Gerald did not care to think of Mrs. Ruthven just 
then. But he had to think of her whether he would 
or no. It seemed to him that with his sudden at- 
traction to Araby — with, as he expressed it to him- 
self, the opening of his eyes, which up to then had 
been blind — there had come almost a revulsion of 
feeling against her mother. When he looked back 
over the last few months, it appeared to him that 
there had always been grave limitations to such ad- 
miration, call it what you like, as he had had for her. 
Possibly the knowledge that he was one of many was 
not outbalanced by the later knowledge that he was 
the one of all. Perhaps this later knowledge did 
not — since the affections know no coercion — draw 
him nearer to her. Be this as it may, the more he 
thought of Araby the further he receded from Mrs. 
Ruthven. Much that had impressed him little at 
the time of its occurrence took now a sinister mean- 
ing. He could not bear to think that Araby had 
been subjected to unkindness or neglect. He did 


200 


Time and the Woman 


not in point of fact believe that either had been 
palpable. He accused Mrs. Ruthven of nothing that 
was active. He had never been present at the bait- 
ing of Araby. His charge against her mother was 
rather that of a deliberate withholding of her sym- 
pathy, and of making Araby of no account. He 
had read the girl’s character sufficiently well to know 
that she was sensitive. He felt that she was being 
repressed, and driven back upon herself. 

Gerald began to build castles in the air. He had 
gathered generally from remarks that Mrs. Ruth- 
ven had made concerning the Miss Woottons, that 
Araby’s upbringing had been narrow in its tendency. 
Araby was still so young that Gerald told himself 
that the delight of directing her into broader paths 
would be his. Under his tender care of her, he 
would see her develop and expand, as some beautiful 
flower expands when the plant that bears it is taken 
from an ungenerous spot, where it has been hemmed 
in and denied air and light, and removed to a richer 
soil and a freer and clearer atmosphere. 

He would take Araby abroad. They should 
travel together, seeing all that was beautiful in art 
and nature. Araby had never been out of England, 
and he imagined something of the freshness of the 
happiness that would be hers, and vicariously his, as 
she received new impressions. There would be an 
unconscious education for them both. She would 


Time and the Woman 


201 


learn the world, and get wisdom by experience; he 
would teach her. The pleasure of such a schooling 
as this was a thing on which to dream. . . . 

Time passed meanwhile. Had Araby been in 
Primate Street, Gerald would have returned to town ; 
but he knew her to be still staying with the Miss 
Woottons, and he prolonged his visits. Pie had 
expected a line from Olympe to acknowledge the 
mended frame, and he awaited it with some small 
impatience. He accounted for her silence when he 
heard from his sister casually, and amongst the other 
items of news with which she filled her letters, that 
Mrs. Ruthven had left town. 

He had, however, almost ceased to expect it, 
when there reached him one day a note written in 
the flowing and flourishing hand of the French- 
woman. It bore the Eccram post-mark, and had 
been forwarded to him from Lennox Gardens. 
Olympe expressed unlimited gratitude for the ser- 
vice which Monsieur had done for her, and much 
regret that, owing to a delay in sending the frame 
after her from Primate Street, she had not known 
sooner of its arrival, and so been able to thank 
Monsieur at once. The goodness of Monsieur the 
writer would never forget, and if at any time she 
could be of use to Monsieur in any way, Monsieur 
had but to command her. 

Gerald read nothing between the lines. But a 


202 


Time and the Woman 


sentence in a postscript surprised him, and disturbed 
him somewhat as well 

“ I am sure that Miss Araby would wish to ex- 
press obligation to Monsieur for his kindness. I 
must make thanks for Mademoiselle by proxy. 
Miss Araby is out for a walk with Mr. Hartford at 
the moment.” 

Gerald looked up from the letter. 

“ What does the woman mean? ” he said to him- 
self, when he had read the words twice. “ What 
does Olympe mean? She had some reason for add- 
ing that. And Hartford — what the devil is he doing 
at Eccram ? ” 

He could find no satisfactory answers to the 
questions he asked. In his perplexity he bethought 
him of Mrs. Sandon, of whom he knew Hartford to 
be a favorite; so, diplomatically hoping that she 
would be diffusive in reply, he asked if she could 
furnish him with his friend’s address. 

He smiled to himself as he directed and stamped 
the envelope. 

Mrs. Sandon answered his letter by return of 
post. She was as diffusive as any one could have 
wished, but in another direction. Her neighbor, 
Lady Murgatroyd, had succumbed after only a few 
days’ illness to an attack of bronchitis, and had left 
all she possessed to the scamp Sloane Wetherley. 

Mrs. Sandon was bubbling over with so much ex- 


Time and the Woman 


203 


citement, and with such indignation tempered at 
intervals by remorse and charity, that she wrote 
four pages, almost innocent of punctuation except so 
far as the feminine dash may count for it, and only 
at the end remembered to answer Gerald’s question. 

“ My intimate friend and neighbor,” she wrote, 
“ and after only being ill the inside of a week I 
heard she had this horrid bronchitis on Monday. 
She has always been subject to it in the winter and 
she will not take care of herself I sent over at once 
to enquire and by Sunday night she was dead. Isn’t 
it dreadful — I could scarcely believe it when it was 
told to me I have seen her almost every day for the 
last ten years and I can hardly realize yet that I 
shall never see her again. And to think that she 
should have left everything to that rogue who 
treated her so badly It makes me wild I never 
could understand what she saw in him but he 
could always twist her round his little finger. She 
was a good woman and one doesn’t like to say any- 
thing now that she is dead — I was very fond of her 
though one might have wished that she had had a 
little more sense I was going to say but I don’t like 
to use the word in this connection. Still one can’t 
help regretting the failings of one’s friends I shall 
miss her dreadfully she used to come in at odd 
times and I was always glad to see her — Nothing 
saddens one so much as one gets older as the drop- 


204 


Time and the Woman 


ping off one by one of one’s old friends Poor dear 
Lady Murgatroyd she hated the word so much that I 
don’t think she would have liked to be called 4 old ’ 
even as a friend I hear she looked a thousand in 
her coffin.” 

Gerald involuntarily smiled, and thought that 
Lady Murgatroyd would have risen from her grave 
could she have read this. 

“ I feel very sad and lonely,” the letter ran as it 
approached an end. “ I suppose it will be my turn 
next Care of Miss Wootton Eccram Northshire 
will find Mr. Hartford Mrs. Ruthven went down 
there herself a few days ago and took him with her 
She is always unaccountable Come and see me when 
you come back to town and cheer me up for I feel 
very low. 

“ Yours affly, 

“ Emma Sandon. 

“ P. S. I should scarcely think that scamp would 
dare to show his face in London just yet but it 
would be just like him if he brazened it out Sloane 
Wetherley I mean.” 

Gerald folded up the letter. 

“ One less unhappy woman in the world,” he said 
to himself with a sigh. “ Poor Lady Murgatroyd ! 
And after all why shouldn’t she do as she liked 
with her own ? ” 


Time and the Woman 


205 


But lie went back at once to his thought of Araby, 
and in this his attitude may be taken as symbolical 
of that of others of the acquaintances of the restless 
woman who had laid down her arms in the fight. 
A few words expressive of shock at the suddenness 
of her defeat, a few words of regret, a whisper of 
scandal, an eyebrow raised, a head shaken, and those 
amongst whom Lady Murgatroyd had passed her 
unsatisfied life talked of other things. So Lady 
Murgatroyd died and was forgotten. 

Gerald could scarcely have said why the presence 
of Hartford at Eccram disquieted him. Mrs. Ruth- 
ven’s departure too from town was sudden as that 
of Araby, and a presentiment that all was not well — 
and the normal Gerald, the Gerald out of love, did 
not believe in presentiments nor attach any im- 
portance to them, — now took possession of him. 

In this mood he wrote to Mrs. Ruthven. He had 
expected from what he knew of women that she 
would have written to him first; and the fact that 
he had not heard from her added itself to the sum 
of the other things which were vaguely disturbing 
him. 

Happily at length the frost broke up, and a few 
days with the hounds seemed to bring him back 
somewhat to himself. When a week had passed, 
and there seemed no likelihood of a return of the 
severe weather, he began to think of going home to 


206 


Time and the Woman 


Conibe Lecton for the end of the hunting". The 
stables were finished, and he heard from his father 
of a run that made him wish to be in his own county. 
He determined as soon as he had got through his 
engagements to lose as little of the season as re- 
mained. 

In the meantime he heard from Mrs. Ruthven. 
She wrote him a long letter, and told him nothing 
that he wished to know, which is tantamount to say- 
ing that Araby was scarcely mentioned, and Hart- 
ford most casually. 

Gerald felt that he could do nothing, and he 
resigned himself to the inevitable and waited. He 
would have written to Araby herself had it not 
seemed to him that in point of fact his acquaintance 
with her had never reached that closeness with 
which in thought only he associated it. He must 
not forget, he told himself, that he had fallen in love 
with her two days at the most before she was parted 
from him. When he sought the exact moment, he 
placed it at that which had brought him face to face 
with her on the white landing outside the drawing- 
room door in Primate Street. The impression she 
made upon him then had been deepened when she 
sung in the firelight of the later afternoon. Then 
at dinner he had ignored her. That was horrible, 
and a thing to forget. He had made up for that 
perhaps by the hurried meeting with her at the 


Time and the Woman 207 

St. James’s Hall. After that came the day on the 
ice, and the sudden and fuller realizing of her 
beauty; and after that nothing actually — virtually 
everything. Gerald had, as it were, fallen in love 
on last sight, and worked backwards. He got to 
know her in retrospect. 

Obviously he could not write. 


208 


Time and the Woman 


CHAPTER XX. 

February was half gone, and six weeks had 
passed since Gerald left town when he started for 
the place the visit to which he determined should be 
his last before going home to Combe Lecton. He 
knew that he should meet a big party, for his host- 
ess was filling her house for a couple of balls in 
the neighborhood, but he did not expect to see any 
one that would interest him, much less did he expect 
to hear news of the Ruthvens. 

He arrived late in the afternoon, and hurried to 
his room to dress. On the stairs as he came thence 
he met Miss Norfolk. 

He was frankly glad to see her, and he said so 
when they had exchanged greetings. He had met 
her so often in Primate Street that she derived 
thence in his eyes the reflected glory of Araby. 

“ I rather think,” she said, as they crossed the big 
hall, “ I rather think you have got to take me in to 
dinner.” 

“ Well,” said Gerald with amusement, “ I don’t 
mind.” 

“ That’s right,” said Miss Norfolk, “ for I have 
a lot to talk to you about.” 


Time and the Woman 


209 


They reached the drawing-room. 

Gerald’s hostess came forward and welcomed him 
with effusion. She said all the usual things. She 
has little bearing upon the story, and she may be 
briefly dismissed as a rich woman who had married 
three men and buried them, and who now “ ran ” 
their daughters. 

Gerald found several acquaintances in the room, 
and by the time he had shaken hands with them din- 
ner was announced. 

Miss Norfolk walked beside him to the dining- 
room in silence. There was something in her man- 
ner that led him to expect the unexpected. She 
did not chatter, and he thought that there was more 
in her face than he had supposed. But he never 
took Miss Norfolk seriously. 

“ What had you to tell me ? ” he said. 

He was reminded as he spoke the words that he 
had used them to Mrs. Ruthven a few weeks back, 
and he thought of Araby and sighed. A babel of 
tongues filled the room. Arrivals of the day were 
taking their bearings. 

“ You do as you like,” Gerald heard a girl telling 
a man who had come by the same train as himself ; 
“ you will see all sorts of notices in your room about 
the hours of meals, and not keeping the carriages 
waiting, but you don’t take any notice of them. It 
isn’t a bad house to stay in, but the girls watch you. 


210 


Time and the Woman 


There are five of them, mostly step-sisters. You 
will be expected to dance with all of them.” 

“ Are there five? ” said Gerald to Miss Norfolk. 

Miss Norfolk nodded. 

“ Every second or third girl round the table is a 
daughter of the house,” she said. “ There were six. 
One married. Look at your hostess, Mr. Ventnor; 
wouldn’t you like her for your wife’s mother ? ” 

Gerald looked up the table at the high-nosed lady 
at the head of it, and said 

“ God forbid!” 

Then he wondered how he should like Mrs. Ruth- 
ven in the same capacity. All thought at this period 
of his life seemed to lead back to Araby. 

There was a pause. He had diverted Miss Nor- 
folk for the moment from her purpose. Again he 
caught from the general chorus of voices detached 
snatches of conversation. The man who had trav- 
eled with him had settled down into a steady flirta- 
tion with the girl he had taken in to dinner. They 
were discussing the color of her eyes. 

“ They are not hazel,” said Miss Norfolk in an 
aside to Gerald, “they are drab.” 

“ What had you to say to me ? ” said Gerald again. 

Miss Norfolk looked at him for a moment or two 
before she answered him. Then she began to 
laugh. 

“I must tell some one,” she said, “and I am 


Time and the Woman 


211 


moved to tell you. I have done a generous action 
and — I have lost the reward.” 

Gerald, raising his eyebrows, said that Miss Nor- 
folk could not mean that. 

“ Which ? ” asked she, “ the action or the reward 
manque ? I mean both unhappily. You see I 
thought I was certain of the reward when I per- 
formed the action, but I was what you call a little bit 
previous.” 

“ Annoying ! ” said Gerald. 

“ Pray,” said Miss Norfolk, “ treat the matter 
with becoming seriousness. I am in desperate earn- 
est. What I am going to tell you is the disappoint- 
ment and temporary failure of a life — I use the 
word temporary advisedly, for I don’t intend to 
fail in the end.” 

“ And your aims and object? ” said Gerald. 

“ A girl with five sisters — my mother’s quiver, 
you see, is as full as that of your hostess, but I do 
claim for us that we are better-looking! — a girl, I 
say, in such a case owes a duty to society. I see 
my duty clearly. It is my aim and my object to 
perform my duty to my family ; but I am not going 
to propose to you, Mr. Ventnor.” 

“ And the generous action?” asked Gerald. 

Miss Norfolk thought for a few moments. Ger- 
ald looked round the table. In the pause the lady 
upon his left made some remark to him. Miss Nor- 
folk waited for his attention. 


212 


Time and the Woman 


“ The generous action? ” he said, turning to her 
as soon as he could, politely, disengage himself. 

“ Here,” said Miss Norfolk, “ comes the serious 
part of my story — the part, don’t you know, which 
should be spoken with slow music. You wouldn’t 
think I had much sentiment, would you? I don’t 
know that I thought so myself till I met — Someone. 
Oh, my Someone ! He — you mayn’t believe it — had 
the odd taste to fall in love with me. He fell in love 
with me badly, and I . . . well, I suppose I 

have some feeling after all.” 

There was a tone in Miss Norfolk’s voice that was 
unusual. Gerald’s eyes met hers, which did not 
falter, and she proceeded after a little pause 

“ As much then as it is in me to love any one, I 
love this man who loves me. Isn’t it hideous in this 
world that one must consider ways and means ? He 
is a barrister. He was poor a month ago. To- 
day, by a series of accidents, he is not. He had a 
rich uncle who was kind to him, but from whom he 
had no expectations, for the uncle married a young 
wife, and had an heir. Three weeks ago the young 
wife ran away with a lover. (Women, I am told, 
sometimes have lovers. It is odd, isn’t it?) But 
that isn’t all. The child was told some story by its 
nurse, which led it to suppose that it would find its 
mother at some place where it — the child, you 
know, they have no gender at a certain age — had 


Time and the Woman 


213 


often stayed with her, and it went off there by itself, 
and was run over and killed, and so my barrister is 
his uncle’s heir. All of which sounds like a fairy 
story, but is true.” 

“ I am still in the dark,” said Gerald. “ I see that 
the rich barrister may be the reward ” 

“He isn’t the reward,” said Miss Norfolk; “not 
the reward I had expected, any way, though he 
would have done ten thousand times as well. Be- 
sides, you haven’t heard the generous action yet. I 
had given him away.” 

“ Given him away? ” 

“ Before I knew his worth, it is true. Still it did 
involve a sacrifice. I have a sister, one Anne, an 
unworldly girl, whom I am very fond of. She is 
very different from all of us. I found out that she 
was — well, one word does as well as another — head 
over ears in love with my barrister. She doesn’t 
care for any of the things which are essential to my 
happiness — money, fun — oh, you know — and I gave 
her my barrister.” 

“ How?” 

“ Well, he asked me to marry him. He asked me 
whether I cared for him. I said no. I said I didn’t. 
I told him a lie. I did care for him. I do care for 
him, but I thought I saw my reward safe if I gave 
him to Anne. I talk glibly of giving him, don’t I ? 
Well, I have some grounds for it. Anne would 


214 


Time and the Woman 


never have got him without me. He was always 
fond of her, and you know a man will often go, at 
a rebound, from the woman who has refused him to 
the nearest woman he likes. I gave him to Anne in 
that way. She is at this moment the happiest girl 
in England. I am paying visits to keep out of their 
way for a bit. His good fortune came after the en- 
gagement. I think he is happy with Anne, but I 
could get him back by beckoning with my little 
finger if I chose, and I won’t. He will forgive me 
in time, and love Anne as she deserves.” 

“ It seems to me,” said Gerald, “ that it is more 
generous of you not to try and get him back than to 
have given him away in the first instance. I still 
want to know of the reward you expected.” 

Miss Norfolk was silent again. Gerald was won- 
dering how far the girl who was talking to him was 
doing herself justice. He felt attracted to her, and 
he fancied somehow that deeper feelings than she 
acknowledged underlay what she had told him. 

“ I have a reason for telling you,” she said pres- 
ently, “beyond the wish to tell somebody. After 
certain words that passed between Mr. Hartford 
and myself at the George Athols’, I thought I had 
only to wait a day or two to announce myself en- 
gaged to him. Yes, it is funny, isn’t it? I couldn’t 
fall in love with him, but he would give me all that 
I want, and we could both be very happy. He very 


Time and the Woman 


215 


nearly — how shall I put it? — accepted me at supper 
that night. I gave my barrister to Anne to leave 
myself free to marry Mr. Hartford and his very 
good fortunes. By doing this I unconsciously gave 
up what would have been a very good investment. 
Mrs. Ruthven, directly you left town, whisked off 
Mr. Hartford to what’s the name of the place? — 
Eccram, and ” 

Something in Gerald’s expression arrested her 
attention. 

“ But you must know this ! ” 

“ And what ? Go on.” 

“ Well, I don’t know how she has managed it, 
but Mr. Hartford is engaged to Araby Ruthven.” 

“ Good God ! ” said Gerald, in spite of himself. 


216 


Time and the Woman 


CHAPTER XX. 

Miss Norfolk looked at him quickly. But she 
had no suspicion that his feelings towards Araby 
were other than those of the good-natured indif- 
ference with which she had always associated his 
attitude to girls. 

She had told him the story because, as she had 
said, she wished to tell some one. She was suffering 
at this time far more keenly than her bare words ad- 
mitted. She could talk to Gerald as she could talk 
to no one else. It was he in the first instance who 
had suggested to her the capture of Hartford. He 
had once even jokingly said to her that Hartford and 
she, since they would demand little of each other 
but affectionate toleration, were eminently qualified 
for the relative positions of husband and wife. 
Something in the irony of her apparent loss of him 
seemed too humorous a thing to keep to herself. 
The acknowledgment that she had a heart came, 
however, necessarily into the story she was telling, 
and was an explanation perhaps of much that was 
obscure in a character that appeared to be frankly 
ingenuous. 


Time and the Woman 217 

There was another pause. The servants placed 
the wine upon the table and withdrew. 

Miss Norfolk, in many words, had made her con- 
fession. Gerald, with a sudden misgiving, thought 
that he had made his in two. But he was wrong, for 
as yet he had disclosed nothing. The fact that he 
thought he had betrayed himself kept him for a few 
moments from giving voice to the questions that 
burned to be asked. By the time that he had realized 
that it was unlikely that Miss Norfolk could have 
guessed a secret that was known only to himself, the 
hostess, who ran five girls, caught the eye of her 
duchess, and the ladies left the room. 

Gerald found himself talking, and of what or to 
whom he could not off-hand have answered. But he 
always remembered afterwards the pattern of the 
table-cloth. 

The short service system was the ruin of the 
army (there were roses and thistles and shamrocks 
in shining damask), and regiments that had been the 
pride of England and the envy of her enemies were 
' now made up of a lot of boys (roses and thistles 
and shamrocks with curling ribbons . . .). 
Here came a long gap. Gerald looked at the man 
who was speaking, but he grasped nothing of his 
meaning. “ By Jove,” they said, “ these aren’t the 
fellows that conquered India.” There was another 
gap. Gerald had returned to his contemplation of 


218 


Time and the Woman 


the cloth. A bit of ash dropped on to it from his 
cigarette. He brushed the gray dust with his finger 
into a minute heap, and then fitted it to the shape of 
one of the woven shamrock leaves. He heard some- 
thing about a war, about Russia, Napoleon, the Ger- 
man Emperor. He even expressed opinions, but all 
the time he could not have said what he was dis- 
cussing. He only knew that Araby was lost to him, 
and that there were roses and thistles and sham- 
rocks in the design of the cloth. 

He went with the rest to the ball, for which he 
was ostensibly a guest in the house, but he danced 
little, and was so generally unresponsive that he in- 
curred the displeasure of the woman who had buried 
three men. Possibly it was the fact that each of the 
three had left her with a contribution of daughters 
on her hands that made her so severe. 

“ He hasn’t asked one of my girls to dance,” she 
said to her duchess. “ He did, I believe, put down 
Evelyn’s name on his shirt-cuff, but then he never 
turned up. What does he think I asked him here 
for? ” 

“ You must allow he is very ornamental, said her 
Grace. 

“ Oh, ornamental ! ” said the mother of girls. “ If 
I could only say what I think of them, to some of 
these modern young men, I’d make them dance.” 

Her Grace thought of the three men who the good 


Time and the Woman 


219 


woman herself had danced into marriage and the 
tomb, and said Je crois bien in English. 

Gerald meanwhile was awaiting with what pa- 
tience he could command an opportunity of con- 
tinuing his interrupted conversation with Miss Nor- 
folk. Despite his mancevuring to get into the same 
omnibus with her for the eight-mile drive, he had 
been frustrated by his hostess, who shut him and 
two or three other men of the class known to moth- 
ers of girls as eligible, into a conveyance with no less 
than three of her own daughters. 

At length the opportunity he was waiting for oc- 
curred. Miss Norfolk had arranged her dances up 
to a certain point, and then had left a gap for Ger- 
ald. 

“ When did you hear it ? ” he asked, without pre- 
amble. He was absorbed by one subject at that 
moment, and it did not occur to him to lead up to 
it — nor indeed if it had occurred to him would it 
have seemed necessary. After the confessions of 
Miss Norfolk at dinner, he did not greatly care 
whether he allowed his interest in Araby to be 
guessed or not. Miss Norfolk, if this was her 
object, had so far succeeded in attaining it that, by 
her burst of confidence, she had established between 
them a far closer friendship than had ever before 
existed. 

“ I heard it last week. I knew that Mr. Hartford 


220 Time and the Woman 

had gone up to Eccram with Mrs. Ruthven, because 
mamma heard it from Mrs. Sandon. Well, I was at 
school with a girl called Cora Pine, whose father is 
Vicar of Eccram. I naturally wanted to know what 
Mr. Hartford had been asked up there for, so I re- 
vived a correspondence which had flourished once 
between Miss Pine and myself, and which with years 
had languished and died. There once existed be- 
tween us that sort of feminine friendship, don’t you 
know, that evinces itself in notes beginning ‘ Dear- 
est.’ I believe we even promised to tell each other 
everything. I can safely say that Cora Pine knows 
about as little of me as any girl I know. But this is 
all beside the subject. I wrote to Cora Pine and re- 
minded her of old times, and then I touched quite 
casually upon the fact that friends of mine were, I 
believed, neighbors of hers.” 

“And then ?” 

“Well, then — what a lovely waltz! — doesn’t the 
band play well? You must give me a dance pres- 
ently Well, then, I got a letter from her. Six 

pages. Three on end about our old friendship, and 
another about her brother Herbert, who has grown 
up, and whom she is evidently very proud of. I 
remember him as an insufferably shy and lanky boy. 
The other two pages were devoted to the party at 
the Hall, and they followed, I found, very naturally 
upon the one which she devoted to her brother. 


Time and the Woman 


221 


'(Her pages, you must understand, are good honest 
conscientious pages of thirty or forty lines — such 
pages you know as are not written now, when 
people write enormous hands, and fill a line with a 
word, and write about four to the side of a sheet.) 
It seems that the lanky brother who has grown so 
handsome — a thing I do not and will not believe ! — 
has conceived a romantic attachment for Miss 
Ruthven. Are you listening ?” 

Gerald changed his position. The light from a 
lamp fell thus on the back of his head, and his face 
was in shadow. The dance had come to an end, and 
people began to pass along the corridor at one end 
of which Miss Norfolk and he were sitting. A girl 
stopped near, hanging back from her partner to tear 
a strip of stuff from the bottom of her dress. Miss 
Norfolk was somehow reminded of the work-room 
in Sloane Street, of Anne, of Dennis Leigh, and 
she caught her lower lip tightly between her teeth. 

“ Yes, I am listening,” said Gerald, presently, see- 
ing that she was silent. “ Please go on.” 

But Miss Norfolk had lost herself in reverie. 

“ Where had I got to ? I beg your pardon.” 

“ You said that Mr. Pine — was it ? — had con- 
ceived an attachment for Miss Ruthven.” 

“ They were great friends always, Cora tells me, 
and when he saw her this time — Cora is romantic 
and sings songs such as ‘ Oh no, we never mention 


222 


Time and the Woman 


her ’ — she knew that he had met his fate. She said 
that to herself when she saw them skating to- 
gether ” 

“ They skated together . . said Gerald. 

“ Yes. Then down pounced Mrs. Ruthven with 
Mr. Hartford, and in a fortnight he and Miss Ruth- 
ven were engaged, and Cora says Oh, they 

have begun to play again, and you must dance this 
with me/’ 

“ In a minute then,” said Gerald. “ What does 
Miss Pine say?” 

“ I don’t want to miss any of it,” said Miss Nor- 
folk, rising to her feet. “ Come along, Mr. Ventnor, 
I’ll tell you as we dance.” 

He allowed himself to be persuaded, and joined 
the stream that flowed into the ball-room. There 
Miss Norfolk made him dance. She was light her- 
self and supple, and presently Gerald was dancing 
for his own pleasure. His hostess saw him, and also 
that two of her own girls were standing by the 
door, and she made her comments freely. 

“ She sat out the last dance with him,” said 
Evelyn, whose name was on his shirt-cuff against 
a number which he had never claimed. 

“ And she asked him to dance this,” said her step- 
sister. “ I heard her.” 

“ When he asks me for another,” said Evelyn 
significantly, “ I shall refuse it.” 


Time and the Woman 


223 


“ But he won’t ask you,” said the step-sister. 

Miss Norfolk and he swung round the room to- 
gether. 

“That was worth it?” asked Miss Norfolk as 
the last bars sounded, and she opened her fan. Ger- 
ald assented, and led her back to the end of the cor- 
ridor, where they had been sitting before. They 
found their seats occupied by Evelyn and the step- 
sister, who had, as the step-sister expressed it, made 
up a party to defeat the enemy. 

To this end Evelyn had had to swallow such in- 
dignation as had been called up by the recent ex- 
ample of “ feline amenities ” given by the daughter 
of her mother and her mother’s last husband but one. 

“ Oh,” she said sweetly to Miss Norfolk, and giv- 
ing an example of her own, “ oh, I am afraid we 
have got your places, but we didn’t think you would 
be coming back.” 

Miss Norfolk on her part would have liked to give 
as her reason for begging them not to move, that 
they must be tired with standing. 

But she only nodded and smiled, and passed on 
with Gerald to other seats. 

“And Miss Pine says — ?” said Gerald, continu- 
ing the conversation where it had left off, and as if 
there had been no interval to break it. 

“ Says,” said Miss Norfolk, “ that she believes 
that Mrs. Ruthven — may I use Cora’s own words? ” 


224 


Time and the Woman 


Gerald nodded. 

“ Well, has bullied her daughter into it.” 

There was silence. Gerald said something under 
his breath. Miss Norfolk saw that the girls had left 
the seats at the end of the passage. 

“ Anything more ? ” said Gerald at last. 

“ Yes, a little. But why does all this interest 
you ? ” 

“ The Ruthvens are friends of mine.” 

“ And perhaps for that reason I ought not to have 
told you.” 

Gerald shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Why does Miss Pine think that force was 
brought to bear upon Miss Ruthven ? ” 

“ Because Miss Ruthven does not seem happy.” 

Gerald made some sound. It was scarcely an 
exclamation. Miss Norfolk looked at him again. 
An expression of question and wonder was upon 
her own face. It was slowly forming itself to one 
of surprised conviction. 

“ Cora Pine thinks Miss Ruthven is fretting for 
some one else. Girls do fret sometimes. She 
thought at first that she had had some disappoint- 
ment. She says that she thought that when Miss 
Ruthven arrived, but now she thinks that it is her 
brother that she cares for. But I think ” 

“ What?” 

“ That Cora Pine has let her own bias blunt her 


Time and the Woman 


225 


judgment, and that in trying to account for Miss 
Ruthven’s unhappiness, if it exists, she has sought 
a cause at hand, and chosen romantically a reason 
that she would wish to be the real one. She is in- 
ordinately fond of this brother. ,, 

“ And you don’t think it likely that Miss Ruth- 
ven cares for him ? ” 

“ I certainly should not take it on the authority of 
Cora Pine. You see she gives herself away when 
she says that she thinks Miss Ruthven arrived at 
Eccram unhappy.” 

Gerald leant his head on his hand, and Miss Nor- 
folk looked at him — steadily, now that he did not 
see her, but she had only a partial view of his face. 
His attitude however seemed to her eloquent. She 
remembered afterwards that the pink of his hunt- 
coat was reflected in a rosy glow upon his cheek, and 
that his feet — his legs were crossed, and the elbow of 
the arm that supported his head rested upon his 
knee — were long and slender. 

“If one could only know the truth,” he said. He 
was talking as much to himself as to her. 

“ I could easily find it out,” said Miss Norfolk. 

He raised his head. 

“ How?” 

“ By going to Eccram.” 

“ Eccram ? ” 

“To the Vicarage, I mean, not the Hall. Cora 
Pine asks me.” 


226 


Time and the Woman 


“ Shall you go? ” 

“ I don’t know. I am asked to fix my own time.” 

“ Miss Norfolk.” 

“ Yes, Mr. Ventnor.” 

“ I am going to ask you to do something for me, 
and I am going to tell you what I haven’t told to a 
living soul.” 

Miss Norfolk trembled a little, and was silent and 
waited. 

“ Will you go to Eccram ? Will you find out what 
is going on there? You have been frank enough 
with me to-night, and I will be equally frank. I — 
laugh at me if you like — I love Araby Ruthven. Oh, 
I am hard hit, I tell you, when I can talk of it like 
this. But I can’t lose her. My God, I can’t, and 
you can help me. Can’t you? Won’t you? If she 
is engaged to Hartford of her own free will, well and 
good. I am human, and I shan’t die, and in time I 
dare say I shall get over it ; but if she isn’t, by God, 
she shan’t be made to marry him. Not that he isn’t 
a good chap enough, but she shan’t be forced into 
anything.” 

“When did it happen?” said Miss Norfolk, as 
soon as she could get in a word. “ It never occurred 
to me that you went to Primate Street — forgive 
me — to see Miss Ruthven.” 

Gerald smiled. 

“ I didn’t,” he said, “ I didn’t. You are perfectly 


Time and the Woman 


227 


right. How can I say when it happened? The 
minute she was gone, I think. I believe I scarcely 
thought of her till then, and since then I have 
thought of nothing else. It was so sudden, and yet 
so gradual too, for all the time the beauty of her 
character must have been making its impression upon 
me.” 

“ You never appeared to notice her.” 

“ My eyes were held, I think, so that I should not 
see.” 

Miss Norfolk said nothing for a few seconds. 

“ I am staying here till Wednesday,” she said then, 
“ and this is what? — Friday. I might take Eccram 
on my way home. I will write to Cora Pine to- 
morrow morning.” 

“ It is good of you.” 

Gerald’s hand held hers for a moment. There 
was a suggestion of tears in the brightness of Miss 
Norfolk’s eyes. But she only said in her every- 
day voice 

“ You see Mr. Hartford is at stake as well as 
Miss Ruthven.” 


228 


Time and the Woman 


CHAPTER XXI. 

Miss Norfolk had in no way misrepresented the 
facts of the case to Gerald in telling him that she 
had given Dennis Leigh to Anne. It was indeed a 
case of rebound, but only the decisiveness of Miss 
Norfolk’s answer had given the impetus which sent 
him, as she expressed it, from the woman who had 
refused him to the nearest woman he liked. Miss 
Norfolk, despite her calculating way of talking and 
her almost brutal frankness in dissecting her own 
motives ; despite her cold-blooded discussion of 
marriage as a means; despite, in fact, the Miss Nor- 
folk which she chose to show to the world, was full 
of generous impulses, and her feelings were far 
deeper than she had admitted even to Gerald. She 
had spoken of Dennis Leigh lightly enough, for 
although she had declared herself fond of him, she 
had done it in such a way as to convey a very in- 
adequate impression of the value of her affections. 

She was guided, however, more by her head than 
her heart, and she preferred rather to suffer for the 
wisdom that told her that she could not endure pov- 
erty even with love, than to accept present happi- 


Time and the Woman 


229 


ness at the cost of future and lasting discomfort. 
She knew herself well enough to be fully conscious 
that she was not made for economy. There were 
of course many little economies which had to be prac- 
tised in Sloane Street; and these she practised with 
cheerfulness, always hating them, but regarding 
them as a transient evil from which the good mar- 
riage which she was determined to make would 
open a way of escape. So it was with deliberation 
that she was enduring at this time the very real un- 
happiness of having dismissed her lover. 

It was for the sake of Anne that the dismissal 
was given with the altruistic lie that gave it its air 
of finality. But for the sister whose tender secret 
had been disclosed to her first by the irrepressible 
Netty, and then by a hundred little observations of 
her own, Miss Norfolk might well have kept Leigh 
dangling on. Had she done this she would, as it 
turned out, have been able to follow the dictates of 
heart and head which would for once have joined 
in a common cause; but she did not know this at 
the time, and so deserved thence no merit, nor 
claimed it. It may be said that she deserved none 
at all, since she only gave away that which she felt 
that she could not keep ; still it must be remembered 
that she could, had she wished it, have refused her 
lover in such a way as to have kept him her lover 
still, or indeed, having refused him, have recalled 


230 


Time and the Woman 


him when his good fortune came to him. But in 
saying that he was happy with Anne she exceeded 
somewhat her definite knowledge of the case. 
There could be no doubt that Anne had lessened for 
him the severity of the blow of Harry’s refusal of 
him. There was that in the sweetness of Anne’s 
unselfish nature that made her eminently adapted 
for a giver of comfort. She was of the type from 
which are drawn Sisters of Mercy. She was pa- 
tient, modest, unassertive. 

Dennis coming straight from Harry, and smart- 
ing actively under the pain of his rejection, had 
met her in Sloane Street. She was carrying a 
small canvas and some brushes. He was going to 
pass her by, but something in his face arrested her 
attention, and she put out her hand. 

“ Oh, what is the matter ? ” she said, apprehen- 
sively. 

He was suffering acutely, and before he was al- 
most aware of his intention, he had given voice to 
his woe. 

Anne listened to him with tears in her eyes. 

1 “I don’t believe it,” she said at last, and tremb- 
ling. “ I don’t believe she doesn’t care for you. 
She is deceiving herself.” 

Dennis shook his head. 

Anne had turned about, and she walked down 
with him as far as Sloane Square. 


Time and the Woman 


231 


“ I am sorry,” she said. “ Oh, I am sorry.” 

He held her hand gratefully when she said good- 
bye, and looked long into her eyes. He saw for 
the first time a likeness in her to her sister. It was 
the merest family likeness. Netty and Ethel had it 
far more strongly, and one could trace it even in 
the twins. But he saw it in Anne then, and, taken 
in conjunction with her sympathy, it brought about 
certain results. 

Abbot was away at this time. He had scraped 
together sufficient money to enable him to pay a 
long-deferred visit to some relations in the North, 
and Dennis was alone. He had just then a dire 
need of some one to whom he could talk of himself 
and his unhappiness. This was in itself a sign that 
he was not in his normal condition. He tried to 
write, and he could not. His London letters cost 
him horrible trouble. He put them off till the last 
moment, and wrote them under the stress of dire 
urgency. He could not afford to risk the conse- 
quences of having them late. He forced them 
from a barren pen. He posted them with the pleas- 
ing knowledge that they were sufficiently dull and 
unreadable to jeopardize his commission, even 
though they were punctual. After all, what mat- 
ter? He had nothing to work for. Of what con- 
sequence was it whether he struggled to live or not. 
Then he thought of Anne. 


232 


Time and the Woman 


Some men came in to smoke. He sat silent 
amongst them, and they had to remind him of hos- 
pitable duties with regard to the whiskey-bottle and 
soda-water. One of his guests made up the fire 
for him. It was falling low, and he had not re- 
marked it. When twelve struck he said something 
which had been on his tongue for an hour. 

“ I’m very sorry. I don’t know what you’ll all 
think of me. I must get you fellows to go. I am 
out of sorts to-night.” 

There was a chorus of sympathy. 

“ Poor old chap. Dear old Leigh, why didn’t 
you tell us ? ” 

There was a getting up, and a looking for hats. 

“ Oh, it is nothing,” said Dennis. “ Come an- 
other night, like good chaps. I am not myself to- 
night.” 

“ Anything one could do for you ? ” 

“ Nothing, thanks. Only forgive me for being 
such bad company. Good-night. Have some more 
whiskey before you go. Won’t you? I feel an 
awful boor for sending you away.” 

The men — there were four of them — shook his 
hand warmly, protesting that it was not a matter 
for apology, and they quite understood. When 
they had taken their departure he wondered what 
they said outside, and regretted that he had not 
borne with them for another hour. They had not 


Time and the Woman 


233 


been gone five minutes when there was a knock at 
his door. He opened it and saw one of them had 
returned. 

“ Saltash ? " 

“ Yes. I won't keep you a minute. No, I won't 
come in. Dennis, tell me something." 

“What?’' 

“Is it money? Forgive me. If fifty pounds 
would be any good " 

“ No, it isn’t money. My dear George ! " 

Leigh took his hand and wrung it. 

“ You are sure? " 

“ Quite sure. But how am I to thank you ? " 

“ Well, that is all. No, I won't come in. Good- 
bye, Dennis. I wish you well through it, whatever 
it is. If I don't come to look you up, it will be be- 
cause I am out of town. Good-night, old chap." 

He ran downstairs, and Leigh shut the door. 
He went to the fireplace, and thought how full of 
kindness the world was still. Thence he thought of 
Anne. Then he wished to talk to Anne — he wished 
somehow to tell her of the goodness of his friend 
Saltash. Above all, he wished to see her because 
she reminded him of Harry. 

So it came that Dennis Leigh met Anne Norfolk 
at the door of the studio on the following day, and 
walked back with her to Sloane Street. Anne 
timidly approached Harriet that night. 


234 


Time and the Woman 


“ Harry.” 

“ Well, sister Anne?” 

“ I want to say something to you.” 

“ Say on, sister Anne.” 

Then Anne, emboldened, and fighting for one 
who was dearer to her than all else the world con- 
tained, pleaded the cause of Dennis. 

“ It is no good,” said Miss Norfolk, when she 
had heard her sister to an end. “ I have given him 
an answer. I haven’t much in the way of a mind, 
sister Anne, as minds go, but when I make it up I 
abide by it.” 

“ Oh, Harry, he is so unhappy. I would not 
say anything, but I don’t think you are happy 
either ” 

“ Anne ! ” 

“ Oh, I must say it, Harry. I can’t help think- 
ing that you do care for him. Don’t you? Don’t 
you, Harry? Why won’t you be fair to yourself? ” 

“ I don’t care for anybody,” said Miss Norfolk. 
But she said it in a voice that somehow left her 
sister unconvinced. 

“ Are you sure you don’t care for him? Couldn’t 
you get to care for him? ” 

“ I don’t think I could ever get to care for 
him ” 

Anne could not know that Harry to herself 
added, “ more than I do at this moment.” Nor 


Time and the Woman 


235 


could Anne know that when she left the room 
Harry buried her face in the pillows on her bed. 

So Leigh continued to meet Anne at the studio 
door, and not many days passed before he offered 
to her the pieces of his shattered heart. 

“ Of course you must say yes,” said Miss Nor- 
folk, decidedly. 

Anne was deceived, and she dwelt in the Seventh 
Heaven. 

When there came the change in the prospects of 
Dennis, Harry went away to stay in country houses. 
Netty wrote her accounts of the happiness of Anne. 

“ We are so much in love,” ran one of these 
letters, “ that Art, even Art, plays second fiddle. 
We meant to have painted a big picture for the 
Academy, but I don’t think that we shall now. 
We hear from Dennis most days, though we see 
him every day, and we write to him constantly. 
We wear odder hats than ever, but we have grown 
very pretty. We are very happy, and — the house 
for such as are not in love is rather dull.” 

All of which but little expresses the joy of Anne. 
She was another girl. Every day as it broke was 
a new ecstacy. She marveled that it should be to 
her that this great good had come. Sometimes she 
had a misgiving that the Fates must have erred in 
showering it upon her, and that sooner or later they 
would find out that after all she was only Anne, and 


236 


Time and the Woman 


they would take it away from her. But generally 
her heart was too light for misgivings or presenti- 
ments. 

But the change in the fortunes of Dennis Leigh, 
which for Anne added nothing to his attraction, 
and only seemed good in so far as it benefited him 
and made the possibility of marriage less remote, 
unsettled him in spite of himself. It made him 
think of Harry once more, and it made him specu- 
late as to what her answer might have been had his 
uncle’s young wife eloped, and his heir been killed, 
before the proposal was made. All, he thought, 
might have been different. He knew far too well 
the sordid restraints of poverty to be surprised that 
any girl should refuse to link her fate with it. This 
thought suggested the possibility that Miss Norfolk 
in saying “ I do not love you ” had used the words, 
not because she meant them but because they were 
calculated to put an end to hopes which might 
otherwise have been cherished, and have led to 
merely a long and indefinite time of waiting, ending 
in nothing. Some words spoken by Anne recurred 
to him. Anne had expressed her conviction that 
Harry was deceiving herself. 

Dennis thought over all this till such comfort as 
he had derived from his engagement to the sister of 
his beloved turned to gall. 


Time and the Woman 


237 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Mrs. Ruthven had never accomplished anything 
with less difficulty than the engagement of Hart- 
ford to Araby. There was a certain analogy be- 
tween the case of these two and that of Dennis 
Leigh and Anne Norfolk. Dennis was in love with 
Harry who refused him, and so passed on to Anne. 
Hartford was infatuated with Mrs. Ruthven. . . . 

His devotion was honest and sincere. He wished 
to attach himself to her. He felt that he could not 
do so more effectually than by marrying her daugh- 
ter. Araby made little resistance. It must be re- 
membered here that nothing that could be said to 
amount to the smallest basis for hope had passed be- 
tween her and Gerald. Araby, struggling at this 
time to appraise things justly, realized this to her 
own young despair. She had been foolish enough to 
give her whole heart to one who had not asked for 
it. That then, speaking roughly, was her own look- 
out. Almost unconsciously the apparently trifling 
falsehood which her mother had told her, even 
though Araby suspecting it to be a falsehood imag- 
ined that she was placing no reliance upon it, served 


238 


Time and the Woman 


to strengthen her conviction that Gerald meant 
nothing by such attention as he had shown her. 
Why should he mean anything? She was very 
unhappy. She knew that life with her mother was 
impossible. She was lonely. She looked on into 
the future with growing dread. It seemed to her 
that Gerald had only come into her life to disquiet 
it further. She tried to put him from her. He 
had only caused her pain. Let her forget him; but 
she could not harden her heart against him. 

It was when the knowledge that she could not 
continue to bear the relations that existed between 
her and her mother was most clear to her, that 
Hartford’s offer pointed to a way of escape. She 
saw with alarm that it was in the light of a way 
of escape that she regarded it. 

The blue weather that succeeded the snow she 
associated afterwards with a period of perplexity 
such as had never before fallen to her. She gave no 
decided answer at once. She asked for two days’ 
grace, and she employed them in trying to think 
out her position. She had no one to consult. She 
shrank with a chivalrous loyalty to her mother from 
confiding in the Miss Woottons. She had never told 
them of her unhappiness. To ask their advice in 
this crisis would have been to confess to what she 
had borne in the last six months, and she had the 
strongest aversion to admitting the facts which she 


Time and the Woman 


239 


had hitherto concealed. She took long walks, and 
did battle with herself. Gaunt elms bore witness to 
her suffering — and once a human being. This was 
Cora Pine. Miss Pine had taken a rooted dislike to 
Mrs. Ruthven. It had chanced on the next day 
after Mrs. Ruthven’s arrival at Eccram that, in 
Eccram church, Miss Pine gathered something of 
the nature, and its significance, of Mrs. Ruthven’s 
manner to her daughter. Miss Pine was in the 
organ-loft, and Mrs. Ruthven, down below and 
unconscious of her presence, snubbed Araby, who 
was showing her the windows. What was said 
does not concern us. It was only a few stinging 
words such as Araby had often heard before, but 
Cora Pine flushed crimson in the darkness of the 
loft, and there was after that one person in Eccram 
who did not like Mrs. Ruthven. 

It was ten days later, and on the second of the 
two days which Araby had asked for the consider- 
ation of the proposal of Hartford, that Miss Pine 
had a further glimpse of her unhappiness. Araby 
was walking back from Long Eccram woods, 
whither her unrest had taken her. The day was fine. 
A warm sunlight that was the first promise of spring 
lit up the morning. The brown hedgerows were 
alive with birds that twittered. A chaffinch for 
some two hundred yards preceded Araby as she 
walked, darting from its twig as she approached it 


240 


Time and the Woman 


to another at a short distance further on. There 
had been rain. The grass in the fields was in patches 
green, to the limit of bright green, and against it 
the red of grazing cattle stood out with insistence. 
A horse looked over a gate. Araby paused abruptly 
to pat his head. Some black pigs in another field 
gazed inquisitively at the lonely girl as she passed 
them. They grunted and scampered away. The 
sky was flecked with white clouds which were 
dazzling in the sunlight. It was a day for rejoicing. 
Nature seemed to have thrown off the shackles of 
winter, and to the reveling in the delight of a fore- 
taste of the days that were to come. 

Araby left the road to cross the fields. Suddenly 
the very beauty and exuberance of the day over- 
came her. She felt herself to be outside all these 
glad things that were singing, and she sat down 
upon a felled tree and cried. She did not see nor 
care that the green of the bark stained her serge 
dress. Nothing mattered. Gerald was not for her, 
and it was of very little importance for whom she 
herself was destined. A couple of colts, all legs 
and slenderness, ventured near to her, and then 
took alarm at their own temerity, and cantered 
away immaturely. She did not heed them. This 
was the final struggle; when it was over she would 
dry her eyes. 

She rose after a time. She saw then the ’damp 


Time and the Woman 


241 


green powder that clung to the rough nap on her 
skirt, and she brushed away as much of it as she 
could so dislodge, and went on her way. Her lips 
no longer trembled, but no one who saw her face, 
white and pink, could have doubted that she had 
been crying. 

It was thus that she met Cora Pine. Miss Pine 
was nothing if not parochial, and she was on her 
rounds with the parish magazine. Many a penny 
which might have procured such delights as the 
Family Herald or the London Journal was pro- 
duced reluctantly from a mug on a cottage shelf 
to buy this periodical, the cover of which was under 
the editorship of the Vicar’s daughter. 

“ Such a busy morning,” she said, energetically. 
“ I’ve been all round the Green — every house ex- 
cept the Hares’, where the children have got mea- 
sles — and down the London road as far as the forge, 
and then across to the Jenkins’, and up to the Hill 
Farm, where I went for nothing, because Mrs. Attley 
wouldn’t take a copy — says she can’t spare the 
penny from the housekeeping; fancy when they 
were having pork for dinner — I saw it on the 
kitchen table. And now I have to go to four houses 
in Long Eccram. You don’t do any parish work 
now ? ” 

“ You see I am a visitor,” said Araby. 

“ You’ve been crying,” said Miss Pine, with sud- 
denness and no tact.; 


242 


Time and the Woman 


Araby colored deeply. Miss Pine tried to re- 
trieve her unfortunate speech, and blundered fur- 
ther. She said something about her brother Her- 
bert, who had gone away. 

“ You see he has only his profession,” she said. 

It was then two crimson girls who stood in the 
field. They felt that the subject must be changed 
before they went on their several ways. Araby had 
a nervous fear that Cora would kiss her. 

“ Isn’t it . . . doesn’t the sun . . be- 

gan Araby, desperately. She paused and recovered 
herself. “ I mean, one appreciates a day like this 
after the long winter, doesn’t one?” 

“ It cheers one up,” said Miss Pine, without any 
marked self-possession. “ The trees will soon be 
budding, won’t they? There was a crocus out in 
our garden this morning — at least something was 
out, I forget what, but perhaps it wasn’t a crocus. 
I must be getting on. If Long Eccram wasn’t so 
far, I’d ask you to turn about and walk with me. I’m 
going to the Greens and the Hebblethwaites and old 
Appleby’s ” 

“ I am going home to lunch,” said Araby. 

“ I am so annoyed at Mrs. Attley giving up the 
Magazine — and with pork for dinner,” said Miss 
Pine. “ Don’t you find that little things quite put 
you out sometimes ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Araby, “ little things put me out.” 


Time and the Woman 


243 


“ And they might easily have done without ap- 
ple-sauce, and spared the penny for the Magazine. 
I don’t know that it was the pork that seemed to 
me so extravagant as the apple-sauce. Polly Attley, 
the little lame one, you know, was peeling them — 
the apples, I mean. And I have a Magazine left on 
my hands ; it is too bad ! ” 

“ Let me take it from you.” 

“ But the Miss Woottons have had theirs. I 
always send them to the big houses first. I am 
afraid the ones for the parish are very late this 
month. Still, if you will have one it will put my 
accounts right. You see I entered them in the book 
before taking them round.” 

The girls parted. 

Miss Pine had drawn many conclusions. 

Araby walked fast, and with flushed cheeks. 

“ She thinks I am in love with her brother,” she 
said to herself. “ I ! — with Herbert Pine ! She 
apologized as it were for his going away ! Oh ! Oh ! 
Oh ! I am so angry with her. I shall never be able 
to like her again. It was dreadful. It was dread- 
ful. Oh . . . Gerald!” 

She burst into tears again. Her pride, which had 
called them forth, presently dried them. A brook 
with soft gurglings ran through the meadow. It 
was shallow and clear and clean. Araby knelt down 
beside it on a flat dry stone, and dipped her hand- 


244 


Time and the Woman 


kerchief into the water. Then she washed Her face 
and dried it as best she could upon the damp cambric, 
which, naturally, no amount of wringing would 
make quite dry. After that she felt better. 

She took Cora Pine’s Magazine and stuck it in 
a hedge. 


Time and the Woman 


245 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Whether the indignation that resulted from 
her meeting with Cora Pine hastened her decision 
or not, Araby accepted Hartford that afternoon. 

Mrs. Ruthven professed herself overjoyed, and 
kissed her daughter, and told her future son-in-law 
that he might kiss Araby and herself. 

The Miss Woottons, who had in the beginning 
regarded the arrival of the young man with as much 
trepidation as if some unfamiliar animal, of whose 
probable habits they were absolutely ignorant, pro- 
posed to make its abode with them, had, as their 
gaunt timidity wore off, taken a great fancy to 
Hartford. He annoyed them in nothing. He for- 
bore to smoke in the dining-room after dinner, and 
made himself quite happy in a little room off the 
library, which was turned into a smoking-room on 
his account, as soon as it was understood by the 
Miss Woottons that to smoke was one of the habits 
of his kind. Hither Mrs. Ruthven, sometimes 
bringing Araby, sometimes alone, accompanied 
him at night. Whiskey and soda-water (from the 
grocer’s in Eccram village) made their appearance 


246 Time and the Woman 

there, when the Miss Woottons had further gath- 
ered that these came under the head of the natural 
food of the male. 

Before his arrival there had been many domestic 
discussions as to his treatment. The venerable Abi- 
gail, with the keyboard smile, had wondered 
whether she ought to go into his room in the morn- 
ing to place his bath. Miss Wootton had thought 
that the water should be left at the door — a can of 
cold water for the bath, and a jug of hot water for 

shaving. The butler said 

“ Leave it to me, ’m. The young gentleman is 
my affair. The man-servant waits on the gentle- 
men, and the maid-servants on the ladies. Leave 
it to me, ’m. It’ll be all right.” 

“ And his clothes,” said Miss Wootton ; 
“ oughtn’t they to be brushed and folded ? ” 

“ And laid out on a chair,” said the butler, brid- 
ling with pride at a knowledge of his duties : “ coat 
and vest first, then trousers, if you’ll excuse me 
naming them, shirt over the back, socks inside out 
ready for wear, and collar and tie on the top. Boots, 
shoes, gaiters, and cetera under.” 

Things settled themselves when Hartford and 
Mrs. Ruthven arrived. The Miss Woottons found 
him less formidable than they had expected. In a 
week his manners (his best) charmed them. He 
held their wool for them. He volunteered to go their 



She did not devine his presence until he had crept up behind 
her and put his hands over her eyes. 








* 

; • 
















| ■ 9 91 i vvfl| 








Time and the Woman 


247 


small messages. He talked to them, and appeared 
interested in their narrow lives. Moreover, he had 
brought a top hat in which to go to church on 
Sundays. This pleased them, for Herbert Pine 
since his emancipation had evoked unfavorable com- 
ment at the Hall by appearing in church in what 
Miss Wootton called his everyday clothes. 

Mrs. Ruthven had possibly instructed Hartford 
upon such points as promised scope for pleasing the 
old ladies. But Hartford was naturally domestic. 
He liked the good Miss Woottons for themselves, 
though much connected with their old-maiden lives 
amused him, and he could laugh with Mrs. Ruthven 
when she said of the worsted-work drawing-room 
that the word “ Chenille,” though she could neither 
explain nor justify it, somehow expressed the period 
that pervaded the decorations. The Chenille Age 
became a catch-word between them. 

Mrs. Ruthven rode, and she drove, and she walked 
at this time to fill the hours and employ her thoughts. 
She was not in a happy frame of mind, but she had 
absolute control of herself. She had the satisfaction 
of knowing that by devoting herself to Corbet’s 
aunts, she had overcome any prejudice that might 
have existed at one time in their minds against her, 
and that they believed in her, and even liked her. 
She knew Araby well enough to count upon her 
loyalty. She received Araby’s decision with sincere 
thankfulness. 


248 


Time and the Woman 


Hartford was an orphan. He came of a good 
family. He had money. And his only near rela- 
tions were his two sisters who lived with a paid 
chaperon in the small place that belonged to him 
in Yorkshire. There was no one to interfere with 
anything that he (or Mrs. Ruthven) might choose 
to arrange. 

Mrs. Ruthven protested to herself that she was 
not doing so badly for Araby. The marriage was 
sufficiently brilliant. Hartford, if not a man with 
whom she herself could have fallen in love, was at 
least very amiable. Araby ought to be grateful to 
her. 

The lady did “ protest too much, methinks.” 
Still it was something, perhaps, that where Araby 
was concerned she should have tried to justify her- 
self at all, or even for a while. The falsehood she 
had told weighed possibly upon her conscience. She 
spent much time in trying to convince herself that 
her daughter’s contemplated marriage had nothing 
to do with Gerald nor anything that she might have 
said of him. Still Araby had threatened to become 
a barrier between Gerald and herself. With Araby 
safely married, all danger of the discovery of the 
false complexion which her mother had put upon 
his attitude would vanish, and Gerald would come 
back on to that footing of close friendship with 
Mrs. Ruthven, whence she felt that it was Araby 
who had threatened to dislodge him. 


Time and the Woman 249 

“ Very well, I own it,” said Mrs. Ruthven to 
herself, when at length she found that she could 
not be convinced by her own arguments. “ I own it. 
What do I care? What do I care? What should I 
care ? I am an unnatural mother. When did I ever 
tell myself that I was not? I did not love my child 
from the beginning. I nearly died when she was 
born. I am unnatural; well, I am unnatural. I 
don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care. I did not 
make myself. If I had been given natural affections, 
I should have had them. I am marrying my only 
child to a man she does not care for, because I am 
jealous of her, and because if I do not Gerald will 
find out that I told her a lie about him. That is the 
truth. What do I care? — what do I care? — what 
do I care ? I am a pagan. All right. I am a pagan. 
I admit everything. Now I feel honester.” 

She was like a naughty child glorying in its 
naughtiness and defiant in its mutiny. There was 
something that was elementary in this woman. 

“And when Araby is married,” she thought 
further, “ I will get some fun out of life still. I 
will — make Gerald love me. I will make him 
suffer.” 

She threw back her arms. Something fell. It 
was the emerald ring which had slipped from her 
finger, and at this moment, with the green flash 
of the stones, there darted across her a recollec- 


250 


Time and the Woman 


tion of the wish of the giver of it — a wish in the 
form of a curse. 

Araby for her part felt easier in her mind when 
she .had given her answer. She looked upon it as 
binding, final, irrevocable. She set herself to con- 
sider the man with whom she had undertaken to 
pass her life. If it be possible to like a person as to 
whose next speech or action you feel no particular 
curiosity, Araby thought she could like Hartford. 
There was at least, she thought, nothing in him to 
disapprove. He was unaffected and a gentleman. 
She gathered generally from what she had seen of 
him that he was easily led, and that his opinions 
took their color to a certain extent from those of 
his neighbors of the moment, also that he was good- 
natured and frank. She did not know his suscepti- 
bility, nor the love-affairs with which he troubled an 
otherwise even life. If she had known this side of 
his character he might have increased for her in 
interest. There was a lifetime before her in which 
to learn. 

Four letters were written to Corbet Ruthven that 
night. His wife wrote, announcing with discreet 
and measured elation the conquest which Araby had 
made. She described Lewis Hartford and his posi- 
tion. Hartford wrote, asking definitely for the 
hand of Araby, and stating such settlements as he 
was prepared to make. Araby wrote at her mother’s 


Time and the Woman 


251 


suggestion, endorsing the request for his consent. 
She thought herself that this was the first constrained 
letter which she had ever written to her father, but 
subsequent events showed that its constraint had not 
struck him. Miss Wootton wrote to say how 
warmly both she and her sister approved their 
niece’s choice. 

Then Mrs. Ruthven surprised every one by 
anticipating her husband’s consent, and making cer- 
tain arrangements for her daughter’s trousseau. 

Olympe startled Araby by the way in which she 
took the announcement of the engagement. 

“ To Monsieur ’Arfor’ ! ” she said. “ To Monsieur 
’Arfor’! Pas possible.” 

“ Why not, Olympe ? ” 

“ So sudden, mademoiselle ! So sudden ! So 
young, you, to marry! And to Monsieur ’Arfor’! 
I lose my breath.” 

Olympe thought a good deal in the days that 
followed. She of all concerned was perhaps the 
one person who guessed something approaching to 
the truth of the case. She was in a state of no little 
perplexity. She loved Araby, and in her way she was 
devoted to her mistress also. She saw that their 
interests were in conflict. Like Mrs. Sandon, she 
was alarmed for both. She wondered whether she 
ought to keep to herself the incident of the broken 
frame, and that which she thought she had discovered 


252 


Time and the Woman 


from Gerald’s manner. She asked herself whether it 
was sentiment merely that led her to suppose that 
Araby had given her heart to him, and he his to her. 
If indeed it was not her own love of romance — and 
the conviction was strong upon her that she was 
right — what ought she to do? In the absence of 
Gerald, that was being arranged which must for 
ever part him from Araby. In her uncertainty she 
said nothing to Araby, and she gave to Gerald the 
hint of which we know. 

Araby herself puzzled Olympe. She appeared to 
settle down almost complacently into her engage- 
ment to Hartford. She scarcely even looked un- 
happy. 

Hartford, finding at length an object upon which 
to expend his affections legitimately, transferred a 
certain amount of his devotion from Mrs. Ruthven 
to Araby. He left Eccram for a few days and paid 
a visit to his sisters at home. Then he spent a 
couple of days in London, saw his solicitors, and 
bought Araby some presents and a ring. Thus 
laden he returned to Eccram. 

Mrs. Ruthven asked him whom he had seen in 
London. 

“ Not a soul.” 

“ Not at your club ? ” 

“ Some men I know of course. No one par- 
ticular.” 


Time and the Woman 


253 


“ Not Mr. Ventnor ? ” 

“ I asked about him. He is still away.” 

Mrs. Ruthven looked relieved. She had certain 
plans. 

Hartford asked for Araby. She had not known 
the exact time Lewis had settled for his return. 

“ You will find her at the church,” said Miss 
Wootton. “ She has gone there to practise the 
organ.” 

Hartford found her in the loft. She was play- 
ing Chopin’s Funeral March with feeling and some 
inaccuracy. He stole up the creaking stairs on tip- 
toe. She did not divine his presence till he had 
crept up behind her and put his hands over her eyes. 
She gave a little cry, and struck a false chord. The 
discord swelled through the empty church. He sat 
down beside her on the seat. 

“You frightened me,” she said, “you startled 
me. Why didn’t you speak ? you might have warned 
me!” 

He tried to take her hand. Perhaps the music 
had unnerved her. She had been playing perhaps 
to the burial of her thoughts of Gerald. For what- 
ever reason, she drew away her hands and burst into 
tears. 

The old man who blew the organ peered round 
the corner. What he saw gave him the impres- 
sion that the lady had received her lover coldly. 


254 


Time and the Woman 


Araby remembered his presence after a moment or 
two and told him that he need not wait. He shuffled 
away. Miss Pine met him as he crossed the church- 
yard. It was perhaps from what he told her 
garrulously that she formed her conclusion that 
Araby had been “ bullied ” into her engagement. 

Araby recovered herself after a minute or two 
and was deeply contrite. 

“ I was startled, Lewis. You must forgive me. 
I thought I was alone, and I was startled.” 

He bore her no malice. He accepted her ex- 
planation without question. 

“ Tell me about yourself,” she said, gently. 
“ What have you done since you went away ? ” 

“ Have you missed me a little ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Araby. 

“ I have a letter for you from my sisters,” said 
Hartford. “ They are very glad. Millicent made 
me describe you a dozen times ” 

“ A red-haired girl,” said Araby, smiling. “ I 
don’t sound well in description.” 

“ Yes, a red-haired girl,” said Hartford. “ Yet 
I think Millicent knows that you are beautiful. I 
said you were like that picture in the National 
Gallery — by what’s-his-name.” 

“ Oh, don’t say that,” said Araby, with a sud- 
den gesture. It had been said once before by other 
lips. 


Time and the Woman 


255 


" And this is your sisters’ letter to me ? ” 

He put an envelope into her hand. 

“ Shall I read it now? ” 

He nodded, and watched her as she read. With- 
out the sun was setting, and the light was further 
stained as it passed through the colored windows. 
The brown oak of the seats in the nave caught tinges 
of crimson and green and blue. A brass plate in 
the wall shone. The empty pulpit looked gloomy in 
a darker spot. Here and there the whiteness of a 
marble tablet made itself conspicuous. A branch 
tapped a window with insistence. Hartford looked 
from Araby to a figure, in the glass, of the mother 
of Christ and of sorrows. Here, too, he saw a 
likeness. It vanished when Araby looked up and 
smiled. 

“ What a kind letter ! How good of your sisters ! 
How nice of them to write to me! Lewis, I shall 
like them. They write to me as if they knew me. I 
wish I could deserve all they say. Oh, I wish I 
could. But I will try. I will try. I will spend my 
life trying.” 

Hartford, susceptible to every influence of the mo- 
ment, drew Araby closer to him. At this moment, 
at least, it was Araby who was dear to him. 

She disengaged herself from the arm he had 
thrown round her and faced him. 

“ Lewis, I want to ask you something.” 


256 


Time and the Woman 


Like Herod he wished to grant any request she 
might make, before even knowing its import. 

“ But it isn’t anything I want you to give me 
or to allow me. I want to know, Lewis, solemnly, 
whether you want to marry me? Oh, don’t pro- 
test. Wait one moment and let me speak. I want 
to know whether you wish it of your own free 
will, for it came suddenly. We had seen little of 
each other, though we had met often enough before 
you came here; and, Lewis, I told you myself that 
I — how shall I put it? — had not had time to know 
whether I could learn to — to love you.” 

For answer he slipped the ring he had brought 
on to her finger. 


Time and the Woman 


257 


CHAPTER XXIV, 

It surprised Araby that her mother should stay 
on at Eccram. To one of Mrs. Ruthven’s tempera- 
ment the monotony of the life must have been 
somewhat trying. Mrs. Ruthven, however, when 
she had set herself a task had always sufficient 
strength of mind to carry it through. She could 
put up with present boredom for the sake of what 
was to come. Hartford had suggested his own 
departure once or twice, but for some reason or 
other she would not hear of it. 

“ Why should you go, my dear boy? You have 
nothing to do. The Miss Woottons are delighted 
to have you.” 

“ But they can’t have bargained for a visitation,” 
said Hartford. 

“ We are all very happy,” said Mrs. Ruthven. 
“ Why break up a happy family ? Araby likes to 
have you here. I like to have you here.” 

He submitted. 

Olympe had a theory that Mrs. Ruthven did 
not wish to let him out of her sight. She had a 
further theory that Mrs. Ruthven had her motives 


258 


Time and the Woman 


for staying on herself at Eccram, and that these 
motives were in some way connected with Mr. 
Ventnor. This made the Frenchwoman vaguely 
uneasy, as indeed, at this time, did any thought 
of Gerald. She saw that by not returning to Lon- 
don her mistress was putting herself to great ex- 
pense. The Bond Street milliner, into whose hands 
had been entrusted the order for Miss Ruthven’s 
trousseau , had sent down a representative to Eccram. 
Olympe knew her mistress to be well enough off 
to afford many small extravagances, but with a 
house in London to which she could have gone while 
these arrangements were being made, the reasons 
must be potent which induced her to add the 
significant item of charges for time and traveling 
to a bill which must of necessity in itself be large. 
There was also, thought Olympe, an appearance of 
haste in the whole proceeding. She was ill-at-ease, 
but what could she do ? 

So the days passed. 

“ I am very happy about Araby’s marriage,” Mrs. 
Ruthven said a dozen times to the elderly mistresses 
of Eccram. “ People might think, of course, that 
she was rather young, but, for myself, I think there 
is something beautiful in a girl marrying before she 
is disillusioned.” 

“ My only fear,” said Miss Wootton, “ is that 
Araby is perhaps a little inexperienced.” 


Time and the Woman 


259 


“ Oh, but experience comes so quickly,” said Mrs. 
Ruthven. “ I didn’t know mutton from beef when 
I married.” 

“ I am going to see if I can get The Complete 
Housekeeper and Young Wife's Companion in the 
village,” said Miss Laura. “ Araby will find it a 
great help.” 

“ I long to hear from Corbet,” said Mrs. Ruthven; 
“ I asked him to cable.” 

Araby walked and talked with Hartford, but 
when she was silent she thought of him no things 
that were unutterable. On the whole she was not 
discontented. There were moments, however, when 
the recollection of Gerald filled her with a regret 
such as used to be described as poignant. She was 
destined, she supposed, for a life of indifferent 
happiness — but oh, the happiness which had been 
shown to her for a moment and denied her! She 
passed a night in tears. Olympe nearly spoke but 
was silent. What had she, in point of fact, to tell? 
And Araby, ignorant that happiness had been nearer 
to her than she thought, suffered the days to pass. 

Nothing but the refusal of her father’s consent 
could now break off the engagement into which she 
had voluntarily entered, and she did not think it 
likely that he would refuse it. She scarcely even 
wished it. In a manner she had grown fond of 
Hartford. It was as well, she told herself, that she 


260 


Time and the Woman 


should marry him as any one else. He would be 
kind to her and considerate. He had an even 
temper, and his affection for animals argued much 
that was good. 

After the explanation, such as it was, in the 
organ-loft in Eccram church, of the conditions upon 
which the engagement must clearly be understood 
to rest, Araby made no further allusion to the 
limitations of the feelings which she entertained for 
him. He appeared to be satisfied with as much of 
her heart as she was prepared to give him. 

She dreaded just then the mention of Gerald's 
name and yet she wished for it. It came one day 
as she was riding with Hartford. They cantered 
down one of the straight sandy roads leading 
through Long Eccram woods. The smell of pines 
hung in the air. There were narrow avenues be- 
tween the trees, regular as the lines of a Kentish 
hop-garden. Araby’s color mounted with the ex- 
ercise. A soft wind whistled in her ears, and a lock 
of her hair was loosened. She slackened her pace to 
a trot and then to a walk. Hartford watched her as, 
with a deft movement of her hands at the back of 
her head, she twisted in the escaped tress. 

“ We will go up Bracken Hill," she said, " I want 
to show you the view. On a clear day you can see 
three counties." 

They emerged from the road presently on to a 


Time and the Woman 


261 


rough incline up which they walked their horses. 
The road was loose and uneven. It wound with dips 
and risings upwards round the hill. When the sum- 
mit was reached, however, the view repaid the 
riders. 

“ How wonderfully one sees,” said Hartford, 
standing up for a moment in his stirrups. “ That’s 
Eccram church, isn’t it, down there to the right ? ” 
He made other comments, then he looked in the 
direction whence he had just come with Araby. 
“ How splendid the pine woods look from up here. 
I believe I can smell them still.” 

“ I can,” said Araby. “ I should like to live in 
a pine forest. I should like to be a charcoal-burner 
in a German story — would that entail living in a 
pine forest? Would it be pine? I don’t know, but 
I like to think so. There would be cones all strewn 
about. You would kick them as you walked, and 
you would breathe in the scent of resin. I ^ould 
believe in elves and pixies in a forest. Do you know 
the elastic slipperiness of the ground under firs? ” 
Hartford with amusement, and watching Araby’s 
sparkling eyes, said that he thought he knew. 

“ Well, they would dance, and slide, and jump 
on it, and then they would sit down to rest on a 
big crimson fungus. In the autumn in those woods, 
down there, there are wonderful red and orange 
mushrooms.” 


262 


Time and the Woman 


“ I am going to marry a child/’ said Hartford 
to himself. Hfc had not before seen Araby so light- 
hearted. She left her fairies presently, and went 
back with a little glad laugh to her charcoal-burning. 

“And there would be nice charred rings when 
the fires were out,” she said, looking at Hartford 
abstractedly. “ And you could roast potatoes in the 
hot ashes; you would rake the flaky wood cinders 
over them. Don’t you like roast potatoes? Don’t 
you always want to stop and buy them in London 
when you pass a baked-potato can? ” 

“I can’t say that I do,” said Hartford, smiling; 
“ I remember though once another chap and my- 
self buying a man’s whole stock. It was last year, 
in the winter — one of those biting cold nights — and 
we were taking a short cut back from some theatre, 
I forget which, and we saw three kids shivering 
on a door-step. One of ’em begged from us, and 
we went on, and presently we passed a potato-can, 
and I’m blessed if the chap I was with didn’t go back 
and fetch those three dirty little kids, and we filled 
them with baked potatoes. A lot more little hungry 
devils turned up too, and we pretty well cleared the 
man out.” 

“ How nice of your friend to go back. I like 
him for it,” said Araby. 

She turned her horse’s head homewards as she 
spoke. Hartford followed suit. 


Time and the Woman 


263 


“ One of the best-hearted chaps that ever 
breathed,” he said. “ But you know him too. Of 
course you do! It was Ventnor — Gerald Ventnor. ,, 

Araby said nothing. Perhaps her hand tight- 
ened on the bridle, for her horse curveted and 
tossed his head restlessly. Araby laughed no more, 
nor did she talk again of fairies or charcoal-burners, 
though the woods, as she rode back through them 
with Hartford in a light that the afternoon mellowed 
at every moment, looked more beautiful than ever. 
The long straight avenues gained in mystery. The 
breeze stirred the tree-tops and made the noise of a 
distant sea. Below there was a marked stillness. 
There were no birds. Shadows grew more pro- 
nounced. A pool which Araby knew to be shallow 
looked deep and secret. 

“ What an evening ! ” said Hartford. “ Look 
at the light on that moss. It makes it look like 
crumpled gold-leaf.” 

Araby assented. He brought his horse nearer 
to hers. 

“ What has come over you, Araby? ” 

She shook her head without speaking. 

“ There is something sad in your pine woods 
after all,” he said then. It was as if her depres- 
sion was communicated to him. “ We are the only 
souls in them. Listen.” 

They drew rein. 


264 


Time and the Woman 


“ What silence ! There is nothing stirring but the 
breeze.” He leant towards her from his saddle. 
“ Kiss me, Araby.” 

But Araby’s horse started. 

“ Well, no matter,” he said, and they rode home. 


Time and the Woman 


265 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Having thought of Gerald, Hartford spoke of 
him once or twice that evening. A gloom fell over 
Araby as before. One would have said that the 
subject had little interest for Mrs. Ruthven. She 
changed it. But it made her restless. The dullness 
of the evenings at Eccram was becoming almost 
more than she could bear. 

Every night the two Miss Woottons played a 
game of chess. It was their invariable wont when 
they were alone, and though out of civility to their 
visitors they had abstained from it for a few days, 
they had resumed their custom with alacrity when 
Mrs. Ruthven had assured them that it would not 
in any way seem unmannerly to their guests. 

“We shall be interested in watching the prog- 
ress of the game,” she said. “I am sure, Laura, 
that you and Ctara play scientifically, and that Mr. 
Hartford and I shall gain much by studying your 

play” 

The Miss Woottons protested. 

“ I am afraid we play far from scientifically,” 
said the elder, “ though we play very carefully. We 
are evenly matched on the whole. You see, playing 


266 


Time and the Woman 


so constantly — we didn’t miss one night last 
winter ” 

“ Excepting Sundays,” Miss Laura put in hur- 
riedly. 

“ Excepting Sundays, of course,” said Miss 
Wootton. “ Playing so constantly, I was going to 
say, we get to know each other’s methods.” 

“ Pray go on then, Clara, with your games just 
as you would if we were not here. Mr. Hartford 
would not for worlds that you should alter your 
usual way of spending your evenings for him.” 

“ No — please — ” said Hartford. 

And so the chess-board made its reappearance, and 
every evening the Miss Woottons sat gauntly 
opposite each other on high chairs, with their battle- 
ground between them. 

“ It is better than having to talk to them,” said 
Mrs. Ruthven to herself, “ and they get so absorbed 
in their game that they don’t hear a word one says. 
We score two.” 

Mrs. Ruthven and Hartford played something 
which they called bezique on one evening and 
beggar-my-neighbor on another. They used 
counters, and settled up their debts afterwards in 
the smoking-room. Araby read, or worked, or sang. 
It was all very innocent and rather dull. Mrs 
Ruthven contrived, however, that Hartford should 
not find out that it was dull. 


Time and the Woman 


267 


On the evening which succeeded the ride through 
Long Eccram woods Araby was not in a mood for 
- singing, and her mother could not settle down to her 
gamble. Mrs. Ruthven’s plain black dress made a 
rustling as it trailed across the carpet. The sound 
was the outward expression of the restlessness that 
possessed her. The Miss Woottons felt some dis- 
turbing influence, and looked up two or three times 
from the chess-board, at which it was their habit to 
gaze in contemplative silence. Mrs. Ruthven caught 
Miss Laura’s eye once. Mrs. Ruthven’s expression 
said as clearly and as impatiently as possible, 
“ Well?” 

Miss Laura returned hurriedly, and almost as 
if she had been snubbed, to her study of the chess- 
men. 

Mrs. Ruthven went to a window and drew aside 
the curtain. She looked out. The grounds were all 
black at first. By degrees, as her eyes became ac- 
customed to the darkness, things took shape. An 
evergreen oak looked full and prosperous in contrast 
to the leafless elms. The shrubs outlined the left 
border of the lawn. A path showed itself presently. 
Things as she gazed came out in the darkness as 
stars come out to an intent student of the skies, 
where all before has seemed unlightened space. 
There were no noises in the night The peacefulness 
served only as an irritant to Mrs. Ruthven. She 
wished for India or London. 


268 


Time and the Woman 


“ I can’t stand it much longer,” she said to her- 
self. “ There are limits to what I can endure, and 
I have nearly reached them. I could break the 
window at this moment, or startle those old women 
by upsetting their chess-board, or do anything that 
would disturb this appalling monotony ! I want ex- 
citement. This isn’t life. I should grow old here 
in a year. It is stagnation that ages one. Oh, those 
old women! They get on my nerves with their 
mittens, and their wool-work, and their chess, and 
their doctrines. Araby irritates me because I am 
injuring her. Lewis irritates me because he can go 
to her from me. What greater curse can be laid 
on a woman than to be denied the domestic mind ? ” 

Mrs. Ruthven felt that she had struck the keynote 
of her life. 

“ The domestic mind,” she said ; “ yes, that is 
what I haven’t got.” 

To know the cause of her ailment was not, how- 
ever, to remove the one nor to cure the other. As a 
pendant to the thought came another fraught with 
elements of wide charity. 

“ I suppose,” she said to herself with a shudder, 
“ I suppose that it is circumstance that has kept 
for me my reputation. What if I had been born 
in another rank of life — without money, comfort, 
luxury . . . . ? ” 

The conclusion of the game of chess and the 


Time and the Woman 269 

simultaneous rising of the Miss Woottons inter- 
rupted her chain of thought. 

“ My revenge to-morrow night/’ Miss Laura was 
saying. 

“You didn’t play as well as usual,” said Miss 
Wootton. “ You didn’t seem able to fix your atten- 
tion. You ought not to have let me take your queen 
so easily.” 

Miss Laura looked in the direction of Mrs. 
Ruthven. Hartford helped Miss Wootton to put 
away the men, and then, excusing himself on the 
ground that he had letters to write, he said good- 
night all round and withdrew to the smoking- 
room. 

Mrs. Ruthven followed him some ten minutes 
later. She found him with a pipe in his mouth 
and a pen in his hand. He was an indifferent scribe, 
and he hailed her entrance with relief as an inter- 
ruption. 

“ Tell me something to put in my letter,” he said, 
like a schoolboy. 

He had directed an envelope during one of the 
pauses inevitable to the attempt to express himself 
upon paper. 

“ I never could write a letter,” he said. 

Mrs. Ruthven saw the address upon the envelope. 

“Mr. Ventnor is not in London,” she said; 
“ Lennox Gardens won’t find him.” 


270 


Time and the Woman 


“ But his letters will be forwarded.” 

“ Yes, I suppose so.” 

Mrs. Ruthven stirred the fire absently. 

“ Are you telling him of your engagement ? ” 

“ That’s what I am writing for. I ought to have 
let him know sooner.” 

“ Would you mind waiting till we hear from 
Araby’s father ? ” said Mrs. Ruthven after an 
interval, during which she looked at the flames that 
leapt in the grate, and he nibbled the top of his 
quill. “If my husband cables as I asked him to we 
ought to get his telegram this week. I would rather 
not have the engagement made public till it has his 
sanction.” 

“ You don’t expect him to refuse it? ” 

“ On the contrary, I think he will be glad to 
have you for a son-in-law, but I would rather you 
would wait before announcing the engagement.” 

“ All right,” said Hartford. “ Though telling 
Gerald isn’t exactly announcing it.” 

“ No, it isn’t; still wait a day or two.” 

“ Very well,” said Hartford. 

He put away his writing materials with some 
alacrity, and stretched himself luxuriously in an 
easy-chair by the fire. Mrs. Ruthven left him 
presently. 

She lay awake half the night, telling herself that 
her patience was nearly exhausted. The dullness 


Time and the Woman 


271 


of Eccram had got a grip of her. It was appalling. 
She was wasting the precious hours of her life. 
Each day that she spent here was a day lost, and 
days make years. She fretted and chafed. 

She tried to solace herself with the reflection that 
it was only for a few more weeks. She could not 
afford to lose them. She was in the case, she told 
herself, of one who knows the number of his days, 
and who sees them slipping from him without profit. 

“ I live for the minute,” she said to herself, “ and 
I am unsatisfied. I have made my choice. I have 
chosen the world and the things of it, and I am 
being cheated. I am being cheated. To-day is my 
day — what do I know or care about to-morrow? 
To-day is my day, and I am being robbed of the 
pleasure of it. It isn’t fair. I have staked every- 
thing, if there be anything to stake, upon the present, 
and the present is giving me no return.” 

The wind rustled in the ivy outside her window. 
It cried in depressing cadences in the old chimneys 
of Eccram. It whispered through the leaves of the 
evergreen oak. 

“ Oh, oh, oh,” said Mrs. Ruthven to herself, 
and changed her position. 

A clock ticked with loud monotony. The steady 
sound caught her ear and arrested her attention. 
As she listened it seemed to her to be increasing in 
volume. This was the throbbing of the heart of 


272 


Time and the Woman 


time. “ Tick, tick, tick, tick . . . louder . . . 
louder . . . tick, tick ... It was maddening ! She 
drew the bed-clothes over her ears. She closed her 
eyes and tried to sleep. She opened them and looked 
on at the blackness of the room. The darkness 
appeared to move in revolving circles. It was a 
thing that you could watch. It seemed tangible. 
There were white spots in it. When she tried to 
count them they receded or they advanced, and one 
was absorbed into another. 

So the night wore itself away. Since Mrs. 
Ruthven woke in the morning, it is to be supposed 
that at some hour she must have fallen asleep, but 
she had no recollection of the ending of her vigil. 
It may have ended at the moment of arriving at 
the decision that, come what would, she would now 
hurry on Araby’s marriage. It would be necessary 
of course to wait for Corbet’s consent, but, as she 
had said to Hartford, she did not expect him to with- 
hold it. It might come now in the form of a tele- 
gram at any moment. All that remained then for 
her to do was to find or to invent some plausible 
excuse for wishing the wedding to take place with- 
out delay upon the receipt of her husband’s message. 
To one of her infinite resource it would not be 
difficult to light upon cogent reasons for any con- 
summation which she might desire. She had never 
yet failed to attain an end for lack of convincing 


Time and the Woman 


273 


argument in its favor. Possibly the fact that truth 
in her hand was pliant served to help her through the 
world. 

An excuse, however, came to her of its own 
accord, and without the necessity of warping pliant 
truth to meet her desire. It came through Mrs. 
Sandon in one of her rambling and unpunctuated 
letters. 

“ Never was so surprised about anything/’ it ran, 
“ and of course I shall say nothing about it till you 
give me leave What an odd woman you are, Johnnie 
I do hope you are consulting Araby’s happiness in 
the matter Lewis Hartford is a very good boy and 
from a worldly point of view I think Araby is doing 
very well for herself but do tell me whether it calls 
itself a love-match. Lewis was infatuated with you 
from the first but it never struck me that he and 
Araby ever took much notice of each other. I would 
give something to know the truth you naughty 
woman but I suppose I shall never know anything 
more than you chose to tell me I can’t help laughing 
1 over the whole thing. It is too bad of you to charge 
me not to tell when I am dying to discuss you and 
your doings with some one I miss poor dear Lady 
Murgatroyd dreadfully. She used to be my 
safety-valve and whenever I was bubbling over 
with the excitement of some nice little bit of news 
or gossip I just asked her in to tea Poor dear 


274 


Time and the Woman 


thing! Johnnie you bad clever woman do tell me 
all about it. Was it in your wicked heart when 
you whisked the young man off to Eccram with 
you Is he in love with Araby Is Araby in love 
with him How do the Miss Woottons regard the 
match What do they think of you — yes — what 
do they think of you — but then you would hood- 
wink the Old Person himself I dare say you talk 
copy-book and that Corbet's aunts think you a 
model young matron. . . .” 

All this made Mrs. Ruthven chuckle as she read 
it, and put her into high good-humor. She felt 
like a mischievous child who has heard its naughti- 
ness called clever. 

Then in Mrs. Sandon's letter came that which 
would furnish an excuse if need be for the hasten- 
ing of Araby’s marriage. Mrs. Sandon was going 
abroad. 

“ I cannot face March in London and to justify 
my extravagance to myself I have got my doctor 
to prescribe the South of France I shall go to 
Cannes or Mentone. If it were not that I sup- 
pose you are tied just now I should ask you to 
come with me — I suppose it would not be any 
use but I dare say we should manage to have a 
good time.” 

Mrs. Ruthven took Hartford out for a walk 
that morning. 


Time and the Woman 275 

u We settled long ago/' she said, as they strode 
sturdily along the London road, “ we settled long 
ago that Araby should not have a big wedding, 
with bridesmaids and all the abominations.” 

“ That is so,” said Hartford. “ It is a stipula- 
tion,” he added, laughing, “ that I always make.” 

“ Then, Lewis, supposing I wished the mar- 
riage to take place soon ” 

“ How soon ? ” 

“Very soon. I don’t know. I only said sup- 
posing.” 

He waited for her to proceed. 

“ The fact is, I want to go abroad,” she said. 
“ Mrs. Sandon — I heard from her this morning — 
is going to Cannes, and she would like me to 
go with her. I don’t want to give her an answer 
this minute, you understand; but I would not go 
of course till after Araby’s marriage. So sup- 
posing that I wished that to take place soon — al- 
most at once ? ” 

“ There is the answer from India,” said Hart- 
ford. 

“ That of course,” said Mrs. Ruthven. “We wait 
for that. I mean after.” 

“What does Araby say?” 

Mrs. Ruthven swung her stick and cut off the 
head of a weed that was growing at the road- 
side. 


276 


Time and the Woman 


“ I haven’t spoken to Araby yet on the sub- 
ject. All this is conditional, don’t you see — con- 
ditional on possibilities, and on my wishing to 
accompany Mrs. Sandon. I shall naturally be some- 
what lonely when I lose my daughter, though, as 
you know, there isn’t any very close sympathy be- 
tween us. We are too differently constituted for 
that. You can see it for yourself, so I don’t mind 
admitting it to you. Still, when Araby goes I shall 
miss her — whenever it may be. Supposing, then, 
I say, I should wish to go abroad with Mrs. 
Sandon — it is a chance of companionship for me — 
would you object to marrying Araby soon enough to 
make it possible for me to go ? ” 

“No,” said Hartford; “I shouldn’t mind if 
Araby didn’t.” 

“ You can talk it over with her,” said Mrs. 
Ruthven. “ There doesn’t really seem to be any- 
thing to wait for. If we had settled to have an 
elaborate wedding it would be different, but hap- 
pily you hate all that as much as I do.” 

Thus Mrs. Ruthven dealt with Hartford. At 
luncheon she mentioned Mrs. Sandon’s letter casually 
to the Miss Woottons and Araby. In the course of 
the afternoon she recurred to the matter, and said 
that she wished that she could accept the invitation. 

“Of course I could not go till after Araby ’s 
wedding.” 


Time and the Woman 


277 


“ And I suppose it would delay that too long 
to put it off till your return ?” said Miss Wootton. 
“ Otherwise Laura and I would be only too glad 
to have Araby with us till then.” 

“ Oh yes ; that would be impossible, I fear,” said 
Mrs. Ruthven. 

“ When does Mrs. Sandon start ? ” asked Miss 
Wootton. 

“ She doesn't say definitely,” answered Mrs. 
Ruthven. “ Soon, I think. I suppose one day next 
week. Perhaps if I get Corbet’s cable within the 
next twenty-four hours it might be possible to — 
No, that would be too ridiculous.” Mrs. Ruthven 
laughed. “ I could scarcely get Araby married in 
a week, could I ? ” 

By the evening, however, every one in the house 
was accustomed to the idea that the wedding might 
take place very much sooner than had been expected. 

Olympe knit her brows. 

“ I can do nothing,” she said to herself, look- 
ing at the photograph of Araby in the frame which 
Gerald had had mended. “ I see her go to the 
altar — yes, the altar of sacrifice ! — and I can do noth- 
ing. Miserable that I am! Oui , madarne, je 
descends ” 

Her mistress was calling her, and she left the 
frame upon a table instead of putting it back into 
the trunk. 


278 


Time and the Woman 


Araby went up to dress for dinner. She had spent 
the afternoon with Hartford in the library. She 
had found him very amiable, and she had wished for 
something more assertive in the manliness of the 
man with whom she was to pass her life. 

“ We shan’t even quarrel,” she said to herself 
with a smile. 

She had been reading somewhere that the happiest 
marriages in the long run were those into which 
passion, on the part of one of the contractors at 
least, did not enter. Where illusion does not exist, 
disillusionment cannot follow. 

“ Then I should be happy,” she said to herself. 
Her eye fell upon her own photograph. She took 
it up and looked at it, and she wondered whether in 
truth she was as pretty as the printed face. She 
was comelier now, did she know it, than when the 
likeness had been taken. Her face had gained in 
expression, her eyes were deeper. She sighed and 
began to dress. Presently she wondered how the 
photograph came to be at Eccram. She remem- 
bered leaving it in Primate Street. It stood upon a 
writing-table in that part of her bedroom which, 
with the help of a screen, she had made into a sort 
of minute sitting-room. She would ask Olympe 
about it. 

The Frenchwoman, having attended to her mis- 
tress, came in after a time to help Araby with her 


Time and the Woman 


279 


toilet. Araby, however, who was independent, had 
dressed herself. 

“ I had something to ask you, Olympe. What 
was it? Oh, yes, I remember. How did that 
photograph get here ? ” 

She pointed to it as she spoke. 

Olympe, who connected the frame with many 
things, was taken aback. She hesitated, and Araby 
looked at her in question. 

“ I ought to have told you, mademoiselle. I have 
a misfortune. I drop it. I break the frame.” 

“ It isn’t broken,” said Araby. 

“ I — it was mended for me,” said Olympe. 

“ Oh, Olympe ! and you paid for it. I won’t let 
you. You must tell me what it cost you. I see a 
little fresh bar of silver has been put on here at the 
back of it. You must tell me what I owe you.” 

Araby was generous always, and she had perhaps 
an exaggerated idea of the limitations of the income 
of a well-paid servant. 

“ But I broke it,” said Olympe. 

Araby persisted. She sought her purse. 

“ Stop, mademoiselle ! I paid nothing. I will 
tell you. Monsieur Ventnor had it done for me.” 

“ Mr. Ventnor?” 

Olympe’s hand shook. She scarcely knew at this 
moment whether or not she was going to tell that 
which she fancied she had discovered. It was 


280 


Time and the Woman 


not too late, she told herself. Chance had brought up 
the subject; chance should determine the issue. 
There was a pause which seemed to Araby unending. 
In spite of herself she grew pale. 

“ He met me on the stairs,” said Olympe ; “ he 
saw what I had done. He take the frame. It was 
after you come here. He look long — long — at — 

your face. Mademoiselle, mademoiselle ” 

She caught the girl in her arms. 

“ He insist that he take the frame to mend. But 

it was not for me — not for me. It was because ” 

Olympe, who was speaking quickly and with ex- 
citement, paused suddenly. The bewildered Araby 
followed the direction of her eyes to the door. 
Mrs. Ruthven came in radiantly with something in 
her hand. 

“ Your father’s telegram, Araby,” she said, and 
she kissed her daughter. 


Time and the Woman 


281 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

Gerald and Miss Norfolk drove to the station 
together, and paced the platform while they waited 
for the train, which presently arrived and conveyed 
them to the junction at which they parted, since 
their roads thence diverged. 

“ You are to cheer up,” said Miss Norfolk, lean- 
ing forward from the corner of the carriage in 
which he had established her with her moderate 
equipments of comfortable travel, and speaking to 
him through the window. “ You are to cheer up 
and to hope for the best, and to expect it — above 
everything to expect it. It will all come right. You 
will see. You mustn’t brood. I didn’t know you 
ever brooded ” 

Ventnor smiled and looked down the length of 
the train. 

“ We have each learned something of the other 
in the last few days,” he said. 

Miss Norfolk watched his face. Presently he 
looked back to her. 

“ Yes, we know each other better,” she said. 

He asked her if she had a book or a paper. He 


282 


Time and the Woman 


whistled up a newsboy and he bought a bundle of 
periodicals. They were oddly chosen, Miss Norfolk 
found, when she came to see what he had given her. 
One was the Field , another the Bachelor , another 
the Queen , another the Practical Engineer , a fifth a 
technical journal, the Linen-Draper's Gazette and 
Haberdasher's Chronicle. 

“ Ce que c'est que d'ete — amoureaux” she said 
to herself in the words of a play. “ He doesn’t 
know a bit what he’s doing . . . poor boy! poor 
Gerald ! ” 

Aloud she exhorted him once more to be 
hopeful. 

“ It will all come right,” she said again. “You 
must get that well into your head. I will write to 
you as soon as ever I can. But you can’t hear to- 
morrow, remember that. If possible you shall hear 
from me the day after. You are to take a lot of 
exercise and think of other things. You must hunt 
to-morrow. That will be good for you. Are we off 
now? Don’t lean against the door. Don’t hold 
on. You’ll be run over. Good-bye, Mr. Ventnor. 
Good-bye. Good-bye.” 

“ Good-bye,” said Gerald. “ Good-bye. God 
bless you.” 

Miss Norfolk threw herself back in her corner, 
and cried a little when the station was out of sight. 

Gerald had a wait of an hour. He smoked in 


Time and the Woman 


283 


moody silence, and read the advertisements upon the 
walls till he knew them by heart. An express 
dashed through the station, and occasional trains 
discharged or took up passengers. He wondered 
vaguely what were their several lives. Here were a 
husband and a wife in impatient argument. He 
caught a few of the words of the man. 

“ There is no reasoning with you. You bother 
one’s life out. Then take your damned way and 
have done with it.” 

The speaker was obviously not ill-born, despite 
this forcible expression of his irritation. The 
woman was draggled and dowdy, but with care 
she would have been pretty. Gerald could fancy 
how easy it would be to lose patience with her. 
She had a look of querulous injury. Possibly each 
had at some time felt for the other that which he 
now felt for one in the world. What an ugly 
thought! Did nothing last? he asked himself. If 
so what matter whether one got one’s wish or no? 
Then a thought of Araby’s sweet face told him that 
cynical views of marriage were not for him. By 
no effort of his imagination could he conceive a 
state in which Araby and he might suffer from 
mutual irritation. He built then a castle in the air, 
which only crumbled and fell when he remembered 
Hartford. 

The train came in which was to bear him to 




284 Time and the Woman 

Combe Lecton. He had rested little on the pre- 
vious night, and he slept off and on till he reached 
home. His sister met him at the station. 

“ My dear Gwen ! I didn’t know you were 
here.” 

“We arrived last night, Gerald. I persuaded 
mother to come down for a bit. Oh, I am glad 
to see you again. I miss you so dreadfully when 
you are away, and mother and I had been shut up 
alone together in Lennox Gardens quite long enough ; 
so when I heard that you meant to come here for the 
last of the hunting, I determined to come too. No, 
the cart will bring your things. I am driving the 
trap.” 

Miss Ventnor had so much to say that she did 
not at once remark her brother’s silence. 

“ There was an article in the Times on father’s 
speech at Hulworth. Did you see it? He is as 
pleased as Punch. And oh, Gerald, the stables are 
splendid! Do tell me all about yourself. The 
George Athols have sent out the invitations for 
Maud’s wedding. I saw Maud last week. She asked 
me to be one of her bridesmaids. We are going to 
wear . . .” 

And so on. All of which filled time, and saved 
Gerald the necessity of at once collecting his 
thoughts. At dinner, however, Miss Ventnor saw 
how they wandered, and with what an effort Gerald 


Time and the Woman 


285 


joined in the conversation. The only subject which 
appeared to interest him, or at least upon which he 
seemed able to fix his attention, was that of the 
completed stables. The necessity for certain struc- 
tural alterations, which had long been felt and dis- 
cussed, had been met in the end by an almost entire 
remodeling of the buildings. Gerald had sold his 
hunters at the close of the previous season, and he 
delayed buying or even looking out for others till 
Combe Lecton should be ready to receive them. 
Sir John, who had gone up to town on the reassemb- 
ling of Parliament, had left his own horses at his 
son’s disposal. 

Gwendolen Ventnor once having divined that her 
brother was harassed, asked no questions, but con- 
tinued to express her sympathy by her manner. She 
was happy in the knowledge of the good-fellowship 
which existed between her and him, and she knew 
that his confidence would be given voluntarily or 
not at all. The evening passed uneventfully. Lady 
Ventnor worked, and talked disparagingly of her 
friends. She had lately told her daughter that Ger- 
ald was quite changed since making the acquaintance 
of Mrs. Ruthven (whom she designated as “that 
woman from India ”), and any remarks that she now 
made about Mrs. Sandon were colored, Gwendolen 
knew to her amusement, by the fact that Lady 
Ventnor traced the mischief to Mrs. Sandon’s door 
in Earl Street. 


286 


Time and the Woman 


“ She is going abroad,” Lady Ventnor said, hold- 
ing up her work to look at it obliquely. “ I am very 
glad. I can always breathe more freely when I 
know that she is not in town.” 

Miss Ventnor said that she should have thought 
a capital was large enough to hold them both, and 
Gerald, meeting his sister’s eye, and catching thence 
a smile, said 

“ Besides, you’re not in London.” 

Lady Ventnor caught always at side issues in her 
defence. 

“ And you mean by that, I suppose, that I am 
neglecting your father,” she said. “ I think you 
needn’t say things of that sort on the very first even- 
ing of your return. You know that during the 
session he would much rather have the house to him- 
self. I consulted him — Gwen will tell you— before 
coming down here.” 

“ My dear mother, I meant nothing of the sort,” 
said Gerald. There was a shade of impatience in his 
voice, but in his present mood he would not risk an 
argument. Lady Ventnor when she chose to be 
misunderstood was impracticable. He changed the 
subject, and when his mother went back to depre- 
ciation of Mrs. Sandon he forbore to protest. 

His sister followed him to the smoking-room later 
on. She did not smoke herself, though she had no 
prejudices, and it was wholly for the pleasure of his 


Time and the Woman 


287 


unrestrained companionship that she invaded the 
men’s quarters. This was the moment to which she 
always looked forward when her brother was at 
home, and there were in the house no others of his 
own sex to bear him company. Sometimes he talked 
to her freely, often he said little, and it was her part 
to watch him thinking. But whether he was silent 
or not, Gwendolen knew well that he liked to have 
her with him. 

He made a few comments upon the all-important 
stables, and then he lapsed into a reverie. When a 
log fell from the fire, and lay smoking on the hearth, 
he roused himself. After that he paced the room, 
with his hands in the pockets of the old blazer he 
wore for comfort. It had accompanied him through 
many troubles and perplexities, this old coat, since 
the Oxford days, but none more real than those 
which now disquieted him. 

Gwendolen rose silently after a time, kissed him, 
and went up to bed. She listened for his step upon 
the stairs. It was more than an hour before she 
heard it. It came slowly and paused at her door. 
She thought that perhaps he was coming in to tell 
her what ailed him. Oh, if he would, how she would 
try to comfort him! But he passed on to his own 
room. 

He hunted on the following day. Gwendolen and 
Lady Ventnor drove to the meet. 


288 


Time and the Woman 


“ Don’t tell me Gerald isn’t changed, Lady 
Ventnor said on the way home. “ He wasn’t a bit 
keen to-day ” 

“ Gerald never shows much enthusiasm about any- 
thing,” said Gwendolen. 

“ But he does care for hunting,” said Lady Vent- 
nor. “ You know he does. You want to blind me 
to what’s going on. Oh, not round by Metly. Tell 
him — tell James not round by Metly. We very 
nearly headed the fox last time we drove that way.” 

“ Which isn’t any reason why we should this,” 
said Gwendolen to herself. However, “ straight 
home,” she said aloud to the coachman. It was al- 
ways useless to argue with Lady Ventnor. 

“ You want to blind me to what’s going on,” said 
Lady Ventnor again, “ and I can see quite well. 
Gerald’s in love with that horrid married woman. I 
am very sorry I ever called upon her. I oughtn’t 
to have allowed myself to be persuaded against my 
better judgment. Why couldn’t she stop in India 
with her husband? — a woman with a grown-up 
daughter too. It is disgraceful. And people did 
talk about Gerald going there before he left town.” 

Gwendolen said “ Nonsense ” good-humoredly. 

“ It is not nonsense,” said Lady Ventnor. “ I 
wish it was. And she left London directly after he 
did, and I dare say he has seen her while he has 
been away. She probably managed to get herself 


Time and the Woman 


289 


asked to some of the houses where he stayed. That 
sort of woman is so pushing. I am surprised at the 
George Athols taking her up.” 

All this, or much that Was like it, Miss Ventnor 
had heard so often before that she paid but little at- 
tention to it. For the first time, however, it struck 
her that as a basis for Lady Ventnor’s fancies re- 
garding her son, there was at least the groundwork 
of the fact that the Gerald who had come home to 
Combe Lecton was a distraught Gerald, and a Ger- 
ald over whom had come some change. 

The day passed lengthily for her. At five o’clock' 
she heard the sound of his horse’s hoofs on the 
gravel of the drive. There were visitors in the draw- 
ing-room and she could not make her escape. When 
at length their carriage rolled away, Gerald was 
splashing in his bath. Half an hour later he went 
down to the smoking-room, and there Gwendolen 
joined him. He looked fresh and ruddy after his hot 
tub, as he lay in his flannels on the sofa he had 
drawn up to the fire. Gwendolen hoped as she noted 
this that his day had done him good. 

“ You are back early, aren’t you ? Did you kill ? ” 

Gerald shook his head. If he had been himself 
he would have given her some account of his day, 
He dismissed it in a few words. His sister could see 
that his heart had not been in it. 

“ Shall I stop with you, or would you care tej 
get a sleep before dinner ? n 


290 


Time and the Woman 


“ Stop with me. Don’t go because I don’t talk. 
I don’t think I shall go to sleep. You find me pretty 
bad company just now, I am afraid, Gwen?” 

“ No, Gerald, I don’t. I should like to stay with 
you if I don’t disturb you. I will fetch a book.” 

She went to a shelf and ran her eye along the 
volumes. They were a motley smoking-room set; 
some novels French and English, a few sporting 
books, a Shakespeare, some bound numbers of 
Punch , an odd volume of Gibbon’s Decline and Fall 
of the Roman Empire , taken by some careless visitor 
from the library to whose shelves it belonged and 
not returned to its place, a copy of the Arabian 
Nights , a few poets. Gwendolen took down a copy 
of Longfellow. 

“ What’s your book? ” said Gerald. 

She told him. 

“ Read me something.” 

“ Yes, Gerald. What shall I read ? ” 

She sat down on a low chair at the foot of the 
couch. Gerald shook his head, and she opened the 
book at random. She chanced upon the Skeleton 
in Armor . 

Thus did all things at this time seem to lead 
back to Araby. Gerald’s thoughts wandered as his 
sister read. Her voice sounded steadily through 
them as a note in a song is sustained against the 
air in the accompaniment. Words, a line, here and 


Time and the Woman 


291 


there arrested his attenton. Fancy wove Araby’s 
name into the ballad. She was the Norse maiden 
with the “ soft eyes .... burning yet tender.” He 
could see her standing in old Hildebrand’s hall, 
where the shields gleamed and the minstrels sang, 
while her father’s laugh blew the foam from the 
drinking-horn. 

“ Should not the dove so white 
Follow the sea-mew’s flight, 

Why did they leave that night 
Her nest unguarded ? ” 

For Araby he thought he could have faced Hilde- 
brand and twice twenty Norsemen. To the vigor- 
ous lines that followed he listened eagerly, though 
the thoughts and fancies that passed through his 
brain did not show themselves in any outward ex- 
pression of excitement. One verse he made Gwen- 
dolen read twice — 


“ As with his wings aslant, 
Sails the fierce cormorant, 
Seeking some rocky haunt, 
With his prey laden ; 
So toward the open main, 
Beating to sea again, 
Through the wild hurricane, 
Bore I the maiden.” 


The words conveyed to him an idea of completeness 


292 


Time and the Woman 


of possession that was grateful to him in his pres- 
ent frame of mind. But as his castles in the air 
had crumbled before, so did the exaltation which the 
poet’s song had caused to his spirits disappear, and 
as suddenly. The death of the maiden, even though 
he had known it from the beginning, struck him like 
a chill. 


“ Still grew my bosom then, 

Still as a stagnant fen ! 

Hateful to me were men, 

The sunlight hateful ! ” 

He pulled himself together and he called himself 
an idiot, but the restlessness that had spoilt for him 
a fine hunting day did not leave him. Afterwards 
he wondered whether he had not all day long been 
conscious of that which was passing at Eccram. 


Time and the Woman 


293 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

Gerald did not go to the smoking-room that 
night. His restlessness was such that he felt that he 
could not bear the limits of any place that had four 
walls. He went out at about ten o’clock, and he 
spent much of the night in walking. He had no 
definite aim. He kept to the high-road, and fol- 
lowed it for five or six miles. The sky was dark. 
There was no moon, and the stars were hidden by 
thick clouds. The hedges and trees looked black. 
There were no sounds in the night. The silence was 
sullen. 

Some drops of rain fell, but Gerald, disregard- 
ing the warning, strode on. He passed through the 
village of Metly. There was little sign of life about 
it ; a few men and a woman or two hung about the 
doors of the public-house. Gerald was recognized 
and hats were touched. He left the hamlet behind 
him. He was walking much as Mrs. Ruthven had 
walked once. He was trying in action to find relief 
from disquieting thought. Above all he wished to 
tire himself that he might sleep. 

“ To-morrow; ” he said to himself. “ To-mor- 
row ! ” 


294 


Time and the Woman 


In the morning Miss Norfolk’s letter must surely 
arrive. He knew that she would not fail him, though 
what he expected to learn from her it would be dif- 
ficult to say. At the lowest computation of her 
powers she was quick-witted, and he trusted to her to 
understand at a glance the situation which Eccram 
would present to her. What that situation might be 
he dared not conjecture. He bore Hartford no ill- 
will as yet. He knew him to be a man whom it was 
easy to guide. Hartford would be under the control 
of any puller of wires. Moreover, he was a sketchy 
person, whose individuality was so little assertive, 
that it would be difficult to impute to him any definite 
responsibility. You might like Hartford very much, 
but just as you would never dream of going to him 
for advice or counsel, so would you never hold him 
answerable for anything in which others also were 
concerned. Gerald remembered that even in the 
Eton days younger boys had been made accountable 
for misdemeanors, breaches of the peace, violations 
of the laws, for which Hartford as an agent should 
by right of his seniority have been amendable. 

Gerald then attached small importance to Hart- 
ford’s share in the conspiracy at Eccram, if it was 
indeed a conspiracy at all. But if it should 
turn out that the engagement of Araby to him had 
been brought about by coercion, then Gerald felt 
that such blame would fall to Mrs. Ruthven as would 


Time and the Woman 


295 


make him hate her. It was perhaps a presentiment 
of what Gerald’s attitude would be towards her if he 
discovered that it was she who was separating Araby 
from him, that, with the dropping of the emerald 
ring at Eccram, at the moment of vowing to make 
him love her, had suggested to Mrs. Ruthven’s 
frightened imagination the terrible way in which 
the curse of the ring might be worked out. He 
would hate her, Gerald said to himself. The injury 
which she would have done him, and possibly Araby, 
would be too deep for forgiveness. 

So, heeding nothing that he passed, he walked on 
in the darkness. A pond at the roadside was black 
as ink. A soft hissing sound came from it. It was 
the sound of the rain which now began to fall; it 
fell gently at first, then steadily in a down-pour. 
Gerald pulled his cap down over his eyes, turned up 
his collar, and set his face homewards. The night 
was no longer silent, it was filled with the noise of 
the rain. In twenty minutes Gerald was wet to the 
skin. The exercise of walking kept him warm. He 
strode on through the straight and steady lines of 
water that came from the black sky. The rain 
pattered on the leafless hedges ; it splashed on the wet 
roads. Water ran in a jet from a pipe at the side of 
a house as he passed it. 

He reached home at length, and still telling him- 
self “To-morrow! to-morrow!” he went to bed. 


296 


Time and the Woman 


He had accomplished his end. The warm glow that 
was engendered by a vigorous application of his bath 
towel was still creeping over him when he fell asleep. 

Two letters lay beside Gerald’s plate on the table 
the following morning. Lady Ventnor had her 
breakfast in her room. Gwendolen was alone in the 
dining-room and waited for her brother. She had 
heard him come in during the storm of rain. She 
was relieved from the anxiety this had caused her 
when presently he made his appearance looking none 
the worse for his drenching. 

His eyes scanned the table and he took up his 
letters. Miss Ventnor had remarked casually that 
they were both in the same handwriting. Something 
in the way that he looked at them arrested her at- 
tention. One was written in pencil, and he opened 
it first. 

“ It is only an hour since I left you,” he read, 
“ and I am writing in the train. After all that we 
have told each other I cannot help telling you this : 
I had not read my letters when we started. They 
were from home. It is dreadful that the happiness of 
one person should come through the pain of another. 
The engagement between Anne and Dennis Leigh 
is broken off. You must gather what you will from 
this. Poor Anne ! Oh, I am sorry for Anne.” 

That was all. 

Gerald tore open the second letter. Gwendolen 


Time and the Woman 


297 


watched him from behind the urn. She had a sudden 
conviction that this letter was of dire import. She 
saw it tremble in his hands, and by his face as he 
read, she knew that he had received a blow. She 
sprang to her feet and went over to him. 

“ What is it, Gerald ? ” she said, in a voice that 
did not sound like her own. “ What is the matter? 
You have had bad news. ,, 

He did not appear to hear her. He looked up 
from the sheet of paper absently, and his eyes met 
hers, but she did not think that they saw her. He 
dropped the letter and picked it up. Then he looked 
into the fire. 

The butler brought in a dish. Gerald watched him 
as he put it on the table. When the man was gone 
Gerald sat down and returned to his contemplation 
of the fire. 

Miss Ventnor became alarmed. She knelt beside 
him and put her arms round his neck. 

“ Gerald ! ” 

He did not speak. 

“ Gerald, my dear, dear Gerald.” 

He looked at her then. 

“ May I know ? ” she said. 

For answer he put the letter into her hands. It 
was very short. 

“ What can I say to you ? ” it ran. “ I have dread- 
ful news for you. Mr. Hartford and Miss Ruthven 
were married yesterday by special licence.” 


298 


Time and the Woman 


Gwendolen looked at her brother. 

“ Oh, Gerald ! and you cared for her. I didn’t 
know.” 

She hid her face in her hands, and there was a 
long pause. 


The Passover 

(An Interpretation) 

By CLIFFORD HOWARD. 

16mo; cloth. net, $1.00. 

The author has Jesus say to John, in com- 
menting upon his betrayal by Judas: “No 
man would so forsake his friend except he 
were constrained by some untoward temp- 
tation.’'" Orthodox records and traditions 
offer no hint as to the nature of this un- 
toward temptation, of the extraordinary and 
ruthless, overmastering impulse which alone 
could have led a chosen friend, and a friend 
who for more than two years had proved 
himself faithful and worthy, to suddenly 
renounce his love and confidence and plot 
to kill him who had been his constant com- 
panion alike in trial and disappointment and 
triumph and success. Certainly, the lure of 
thirty pieces of silver — less than twenty 
dollars — cannot be accepted as anything 
like an adequate explanation of so remark- 
able and tragic a revulsion of feeling; and 
it has remained for The Passover to offer 
an explanation which is at once adequate 
and logical, notwithstanding its somewhat 
startling significance. 



The Vulture’s Claw 

By C. F. WIMBERLEY. 

Author of “New Clothes for the Old Man,” 
“A Cry in the Night,” etc., etc. 

Z2mo; cloth. $1.50. 

A story of interesting incidents, quaint 
sayings, and a certain irresistible humor that 
makes the whole book 
appeal to the reader. 
The originality of the 
plot and the moral it 
carries cannot help 
but be recognized and 
appreciated. It throbs 
;with human feeling 
and energy; from the 
standpoint of an en> 
tertaining story it is 
easily the peer of the 
writings of John Fox, 
Jr., and Harold Bell 
Wright. 

From the lovely 
bluegrass regions of Kentucky to the rugged 
Ozarks we are taken, and it is in the por* 
trayal of the simple dwellers of the hills 
that the author is at his best. 

R. F. FENNO & CO., 18 East 17th St., N. Y. 



s 


Sister dementia 

By FREDERICK H. LAW. 

i2mo; cloth. $1.50. 

“Sister Clementia” is a story of deep, pas- 
sionate and lasting love. Like Hawthorne’s 
“Scarlet Letter,” it is also a story of sin and 
its consequence. The 
heroine, who is the 
central figure through- 
out, is young, sweet 
womanly, passionate 
impulsive and thor A 
oughly charming — a 
character that one 
loves from the first, 
and whom the reader 
will not forget when 
he has read the book. 
Having become in- 
volved in an unusual situation, she is seen 
struggling between two ideals of duty. Im- 
pulsive and always ready to sacrifice herself 
for others, she entangles herself in a series 
of striking events, with such unexpected 
terminations that the reader is interested 
from page to page. The story tells how she 
takes the failure of her life, repairs its 
wrong, and at last succeeds in finding a 
well-deserved happiness. 

R. F. FENNO & CO., 18 East 17th St.. N. Y. 

» - " 111 — 



For Charles the kover 

By MAY WYNNE. 

X2mo, cloth $1.50 

Author of “Henry of 
Navarre,” etc., etc. 

A rattling good 
story of love and in- 
trigue in good old 
Ireland in the days 
and for the cause of 
Charles the Rover. 

*‘Of all the days that’s in the year 
The tenth of June I love most dear, 

When sweet white roses do appear 
For sake of Charles the Rover. 

“Our noble Ormond, he is drest, 

A rose is glancing at his breast; 

His famous hounds have doffed his crest, 
White roses deck them over.” 



R. F. FENNO & CO., 18 East 17th St., N. Y. 


Fanny Lambert 

By HENRY DEVERE STACPOOLE. 

Author of “The Crimson Azaleas,” “The 
Blue Lagoon,” etc., etc. 

i2tno; cloth. $1.50. 

The two chief figures in this story are 
Fanny Lambert and 
her father, two en- 
tirely unconventional 
characters, delightful- 
ly simple and un- 
worldly. The book is 
full of irresistably 
humorous touches, ir- 
responsible fun 
being, in fact, its 
characteristic f e a - 
ture. The lesser figures, down to the 
merest thumbnail sketches, arc all mi- 
cisively drawn. 

R. F. FENNO & CO., 18 East 17th St., N. Y, 



The Invaders 

By JOHN LLOYD. 

l2mo; cloth; illustrated. $1.50. 

The story is one of ranch life and of the 
troubles with the so - called cattle - thieves, 
which eventuated in 
one of the most dra- 
matic incidents of the 
ever-dramatic West — 
the famous “Rustler 
War.” 

The cattlemen al- 
leged that their fight 
was one against 
“Rustlers”; their op- 
ponents contended 
that they were but 
honest homesteaders* 
whose only crime was 
that of fencing in their 
possessions, thereby destroying the open 
range. Owen Wister’s great story, “The 
Virginian,” gives the cattlemen’s side of the 
controversy; “The Invaders” is written from 
the opposing viewpoint. 

Into this stirring history, the hero, John 
Thorpe, a tenderfoot, is precipitated, and it 
is his part in the struggle that furnishes the 
thread of the story. The love plot intro- 
duced early in the tale enlivens the story 
and sustains the reader’s interest through- 
out. 

R. F. FENNO & CO., 1 East 17th St., N. Y. 




THE LIGHT 

OF STARS 

BY 

HATTIE D. BOHANNON 

I2mo Cloth - $1.00 net 


“ ' ' • . This story of the South moves along its 
pleasing way with just enough of the spice of life to 
make it truly interesting. . . . Robert March, the 

boy, is one of the most lovable characters of the story. 
His struggles with himsdf and his final development 
into a man of tempered iron make the best part of the 
book. The scene is laid in Eastern Texas, a part of the 
South which has been but little used by novelists.” 

— Minneapolis Tribune. 

“The old, old story of sin and its consequences; bit- 
ter remorse and long years of struggle to repair a 
wrong and win peace of heart and conscience. The 
real merit of the book lies in the graphic, heart-absorb- 
ing manner in which the story is told. The man and 
the boy, one strong through suffering and the bitter 
knowledge of sin, the other weak and stumbling, scarce 
held to the narrow path by the stronger, wiser hand, 
are little less than masterpieces of character delinea- 
tion. We love the one and pity the other and follow 
them both to the end with interest.” — The Focus. 

) 

“Here is a book of solid merit that deserves more 
than passing attention. . . . Her characters are well 
drawn, and are likable not because they are Texans, 
but because they are interesting civilized men and 
women.” — Cleveland Plain Dealer. 


“Simplicity and dignity characterize this first book 
of a new author, who writes unusually well. Her 
story has atmosphere and reality, her people live be- 
fore us. . . . The work is fresh and strong, and 

characters vivid and forceful.” — Detroit Free Press . 



SIXTEENTH EDITION 


Paths to 
Power 

By FLOYD B. WILSON 


CONTENTS 

One’s Atmosphere 
Growth 

A Psychic Law in Student Work 
Unfoldment 

Power : How to Attain It 
Harmony 

The Assertion of the I 

The Tree of Knowledge— -of Good and IriO 

Conditions 

Faith 

Back of Vibration* 

Wasted Energy 
Something About Genius 

Shakespeare : How He Told His Secret in the 
“Dream” and the “Tempest'' 



1 2 rao, 

Cloth, 

♦ 

|l.OO 


The Discovery 
of the Soul 

By FLOYD B. WILSON 


CONTENTS 

The Discovery of the Soul 
Trinity of Life 
Life in its Fulness 

Man’s Magnet of Power — Optimism 
The Dawn of Man’s Infancy 
What is Truth? 

Growth Through Knowledge from the 
Psychic World 
Man — A Soul in Evolution 
God 

The New Psychology and God 


12mo, Cloth - - $1,00, Postpaid 

(Uniform In style with his other books) 


BOOKS by 
JAMES ALLEN 


As a Man Thinketh 
Out from the Heart 
The Heavenly Life 
Entering the Kingdom 
The Way of Peace 
The Path of Prosperity 
Through the Gate of Good 
Morning and Evening 
Thoughts 


Paper covers, 

4^x7^, 


EACH 

15c. 

Board covers. 

4^x7^, 


30c. 

Cloth binding, 

4 Kx7^, 


50c. 

Leather binding, 

4 #x7X, 


75o. 

Watered Silk, 

4 ^ x7X» 


75c. 


From Poverty to Power 

12mo. Cloth, - $1.00 

The Life Triumphant 

12mo. Cloth, - $1.00 


R. F. FENNO & COMPANY 

18 East 17th Street NEW YORK 























































t ' 

. 

f * 


















. 










































































































library of congress 



